


Murder, Love, and Other Things

by freshneverfrozen



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Companions, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, F/M, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 128,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshneverfrozen/pseuds/freshneverfrozen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the Dark Brotherhood comes knocking on the doors of Jorrvaskr looking for their MIA Listener? Isith doesn't want to find out. Adventure/horror/sexiness to say the least.  Complete but discontinued.  Currently being rewritten and overhauled and will return as "The Killing Kind" series, part one.  Personally recommend that version of events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this here for the sole reason of it being taken down from its original site. However, if you read this on fanfic. net, I'm going to be honest and warn you all now that I no longer consider these events canon/valid/whatever. As I said, the characters from Murder, Love, and Other Things will return with a much different story line (though some will be recycled from this) in the Killing Kind series. If you're interested in that, then...come back later? 
> 
> But, here it is none the less. Enjoy please but don't take too seriously. Some mistakes remain and I simply can't bring myself to fix them because I'm just too hyper-aware of this stories faults and shortcomings. Hence the rewrite. 
> 
> It's a decent story though so give it shot if you'd like. Just don't fall in the plot holes.

The Nord woman’s hands were shaking. The pommel of the dagger dug into her palms, hard enough to press uncomfortably into the calluses. She gripped it for dear life, as if letting go would somehow sever the lingering threads of her humanity. The blood, she knew, would never wash away. The stained black armor could easily be replaced. The gritty boots that stood now soaked in fresh blood could be cleaned. But she…she would _never_ be clean again. 

Isith, the Dragonborn, the hope of many, was little more than an assassin. Had she really fallen so far since entering Skyrim? So many things she had done to alter the course of history. The pallid face of the recently dead emperor looking blankly up at her seemed to agree. To think that he had been ready for her, that he had accepted his death quietly and unafraid…it made her shudder. She should have walked away, left him there alive and breathing. Instead, she had shakily asked him to turn and face the wall as she placed her dagger along his throat. The man had not flinched even as the first droplets of blood began to fall. A flurry of whispered curses escaped her lips, all of them directed at the guild that sent her here. 

Anxiety suddenly gripped her. Common sense kicked in and she realized that she was still on the ship when she should have been halfway back to shore by now. It took both hands to slide the dagger back into its sheath, the metallic whine as it slid into place gave her some sense of reassurance. Numbly, the assassin stumbled towards the door that led to the emperor’s private balcony. From there she would have a clear shot to slip away unnoticed. Even in the midst of such quiet chaos her sense of self-preservation did not fail her. As her hand reached for the knob, she paused, glancing back against her better judgment to the body on the floor. 

With a muffled sound somewhere between a sigh and a grumble, she retreated back to the dead man’s side. Even in the cold embrace of death, the emperor seemed poised. When he had died, he had slumped gently to the floor, his eyes remaining open and his dignity preserved. With trembling fingers, she reached to hide the milky orbs, sliding the lids shut. She crossed his hands, which were still warm, over his chest. 

She supposed it was the best she could do to pay her final respects to the man she had just murd…no, _assassinated_ , the Emperor of Tamriel. Her conscious somewhat placated, she braced herself once more and slipped out into the night, diving silently from the balcony of the _Katariah_ and into the crisp waters of the bay. 

…………………………………. 

Whiterun was as pleasant as she remembered. Its high ancient walls promised a sense of security while the bustling market district buzzed with daily life. Due to the numerous farms along the outskirts, the entire city smelled of freshly cut hay, woody and sweet. Even the air along the plains felt warmer than most other parts of Skyrim. Any other day, it would have been welcome. However, even the mildest of warm weather made the hood around her head act as a boon for sweat production. Since high-tailing it out of Solitude, Isith had since traded in her bloodied Brotherhood armor for the preferable anonymity offered by the Nightingale suit she had earned long ago. In it, she was faceless, dark as the shadows. She thought briefly of what Nocturnal would think of her wearing it for an assassination. 

_That grumpy scow probably wouldn’t care…_ It was a bitter thought, tinged with humor, for the Daedric princess who owned her soul. _She’ll be fighting Sithis tooth and nail for, I suppose._

The armor never so much as squeaked as she made her way through the city towards the inn where Amaund Motierre was staying. From the first moment she met the Breton, she knew he was a scummy bastard. Apparently, even Emperor Mede had sensed it before his death. 

The entire trip to Whiterun had been spent in quiet contemplation: honor a principled man’s dying wish or allow a slimy whelp of a man to wreak even more havoc on the politics of Skyrim. The choice proved to be simple. 

The Breton was easy enough to find. The fool was still settled his room at the Bannered Mare. She approached in silence, slipping into his room while he was bent over his desk, scribbling something that was undoubtedly diabolical into his journal. She watched him for a moment before closing the door behind her. They would need privacy, after all. 

The click of the lock alerted Amaund to her presence. The young man whirled around, alarm plastered all over his face. His discomfort did not ease when he saw it was her. 

“You…you’re back!” His words were choked in disbelief. 

“And you’re very astute.” She said with a drawl. 

His eyes narrowed. Men seeking power they could not gain on their own rarely appreciated being mocked. 

He chose to ignore what he deemed a momentary lapse in respect in their employer-employee relationship. “Titus is dead, then?” he asked. 

Isith nodded, her eyes twinkling beneath her masked hood. Amaund had a fleeting thought of how bright they were despite the dimness of the room, like two lone stars in a clouded sky. 

If he was relieved, he did not show it. _Strange_ , she thought, _to ask for the death of a man and then not appropriately acknowledge it. He really must be a politician._ When Amaund spoke again, she nearly missed it, too busy thinking to herself. 

“You’re payment will be in the place where we first met.” 

“Volunruud?” she asked to clarify. She knew the place better than she would like. Her normally sharp skills had failed her that day and she had spent countless hours wandering about the ruin looking for Motierre when he had simply been in a chamber next to the door. She had assuaged her somewhat wounded pride (and wounded body due to an encounter with a powerful draugr) by telling herself that usually things were not quite that easy. 

Amaund nodded. His next words were heavy with uncertainty. 

“Can I assume our business is concluded?” He licked his lips nervously and fidgeted in his chair. It pleased a darker part of Isith’s soul to know that he feared her. Most people, she long ago discovered, did not deserve to die just as she did not have the right to kill them. To her, Motierre was not one of those people. 

Under her hood, she smiled grimly. Her hands itched in preparation for what was about to come next. Unfortunately for the Breton, his good day was about to be very abruptly ruined. 

The assassin shook her head and took several slow steps toward Motierre. “Not just yet, Amaund.” 

If it was possible to balance both utter terror and unabashed confusion in one look, Amaund Motierre made a valiant effort. 

She paused just short of him, close enough to place her gloved hand on his shoulder. 

“You see,” she whispered, bending low so that he could her through the cloth of her mask, “an honorable man asked me to do him one last favor.” 

“And wh-what was that?” The Breton’s breathing suddenly became very ragged. 

He felt like he could almost hear her smiling, full lips spreading wide over impossibly white teeth. 

“Our deceased emperor asked me to end your miserable life, Amaund.” Her words hardly registered as her hand went over his mouth and a blade raked across his throat. 

“But…we had a deal-“ Amaund Motierre’s last words were a disturbing mix of vocals and the gurgling of blood. 

She left him there after ridding him of the riches in his pockets. She did this not out of greed but because it would make the assassination look like a common murder. 

She was gone from the Bannered Mare before anyone ever knew she was there. Whatever debt she might have owed to Titus Mede II was paid in full and the air seemed clearer for it. Despite her calm and collected exterior, her gut was churning. One more man, a despicable man, indeed, was dead by her hand. How many had she killed? She tried to count as she made her way to the only other drinking establishment in town. Nowadays, death weighed heavily on her mind. For weeks she had fought tooth and nail to the top of the Dark Brotherhood’s ranks. And yet, to her, the Brotherhood was not the family they claimed to be. They were a band of highly skilled, psychopathic mercenaries. It was kill or be killed and once again she had come out on top. Even the Nightmother seemed to applaud her efforts. 

She pushed the thoughts out of her head as she stepped into the tavern. The hovel was relatively empty and it would be a while before the heavy drinkers appeared. A few tipsy Nords were enjoying themselves by the bar and Isith felt inclined to join them. Another group was comfortably hunkered down in a corner across the room. The assassin made note of the fact that each person in the group was well armed. _Just_ _a_ _precaution_. 

She approached the bar and called for a cup of cider. Despite popular opinion, not all Nords were heavy drinkers and she was certainly one of the light weights. During her first trip to Whiterun she had developed a taste for the sweet and tart apple and berry cider they served. The bartender looked her over skeptically but nodded. As soon as the cup was placed in front of her, she tugged her hood from her head and brought the warm liquid to her lips. She ignored the fact that not fifteen minutes earlier she had ended a man’s life and allowed the coziness of the drink to sooth her. 

_It’s amazing,_ she thought sullenly _, the ability to turn one’s conscious on and off._ A self-depreciating “ _Bah_ ” escaped her lips before she could stop it. _Whatever helps you sleep at night, Isith. I could drink down every barrel of cider and mead here and never, ever be the same as I was two months ago._ Once again she did not bite her tongue. “Damn Brotherhood,” she mumbled and took another swig. 

She was three sips in when a voice behind her scoffed. The voice was deep and rough and much higher on the testosterone scale than most women’s. 

“I thought I smelled a milk drinker.” Clearly, the voice was also a wee bit inebriated. 

Isith turned and found herself face to face with someone vaguely familiar. The woman was tall, several inches more so then Isith herself, and had a mess of matted red hair tumbling past her shoulders. Green war paint was smeared all down her face, something which caused Isith’s lips to sneer in distaste. The woman, whom Isith immediately nicknamed “Red”, was from the group that had been sitting in the corner. 

“Better a milk drinker than a drunk, darling.” Isith said, smiling sweetly as she tried to place the woman. 

Red seemed to take offence. “Watch yourself, stranger. You proved yourself a coward once already.” 

One blonde eyebrow rose at that. She gave up trying to place the woman’s face. “Do I know you, Red?” Her normally soft voice was tinged with warning. 

The woman shifted her weight as she crossed her arms, the leather of her Nord armor creaking as she moved. “You embarrassed yourself out on the plains not long ago. I do believe you’re the same stranger who got swatted a few dozen yards into the air by a giant.” 

Realization sank in like a stone in water. Isith’s lips formed a silent “O” and she sat her cup down on the bar. Truthfully, the giant incident had not been one of her finer moments. It had occurred just a day or two after her escape from Helgen when she had stumbled upon a group of warriors taking on one of the plain’s giants. Isith had really intended to help but the battle had gone awry to say the least. 

However, if this women knew about that then she was obviously one of Whiterun’s fabled Companions. Glancing back over the red-head’s shoulder, Isith noticed that the two men seated in the corner were familiar as well. Yep, these were indeed the same Companions who had witnessed her arse-busting attempt at helping them several months earlier. 

_Oh well, might as well save face. No shame for the honest._

“Err, yes. That was indeed me. I have the scar to prove it. Would you like to see?” She pushed away from the bar and came to stand in front of the taller woman. 

Red barked out in laughter. “You’ve got guts, for sure. Now, take that as a compliment and sit back down.” 

Isith frowned. “But you’ve humiliated me so. My poor Nord pride is wounded beyond repair. Maybe if you apologized, I’d perhaps recover.” 

Red’s eyes narrowed and she closed the short distance between them, bowing up like an alpha wolf squaring off with a contender. Isith felt herself grinning stupidly up at the red-head, happy to have something to take her mind off the more somber events of the day. 

Sure enough, a moment later, fur began to fly. 

…………………………………… 

It was a place of solitude and sanctuary and the one building in all of Skyrim for true warriors to congregate without being labeled as cold-blooded mercenaries. But more than that, Jorrvaskr was _home_. Vilkas propped himself back in one of the dining hall chairs, his great sword angled across his lap. Inattentive as he ran a sharpening stone over the blade’s edge, he drifted in and out of conversation with Vignar Gray-mane. The old man, grumpy and perhaps mildly senile, regaled him with tales he had heard dozens of times before. Vilkas nodded appropriately when he had to but offered little more interaction than that. 

His blade was almost sharpened and Vignar was winding down his tale when the heavy oaken doors of the mead hall opened. Vilkas’ pale-eyed stare raised just high enough for him to take in the sight before him. His brother Farkas and the Dark Elf Athis appeared with Aela hung between them, her arms stretched over their shoulders and her feet dragging the ground. 

Alarmed, Vilkas propped the sword against the table and hurried over to his fellows. 

“What happened?” He crossed the distance between them in moments and took Aela from Athis, who gladly deposited the woman’s weight to the larger Nord. 

His twin, Farkas, looked over to him abashedly and shrugged. 

As frank as ever, Farkas answered, “Aela picked a fight.” 

“And she _lost_?” If his friend wasn’t hanging bloodied and bruised from his shoulder, Vilkas might have been amused. 

Farkas began moving towards the far side of the room and towards the barracks. Vilkas trailed along, supporting Aela as well as he could although Farkas could likely have managed on his own. The larger of the two twins, Farkas was at least five inches taller than Vilkas and twice as broad. 

As they led her down stairs into the barracks, with Vilkas occasionally chiding his brother for bumping poor Aela into walls and other general oversights in gentleness, he managed to find the breath to ask how it happened. 

At this, Farkas perked up, turning his eyes to meet his brother’s matching pair. A smirk formed across his broad lips. 

With a huff to blow some of Aela’s hair from his lips, Farkas explained, “Aela ran into a stranger we met some time ago and called her a milk drinker.” 

Sometimes getting the facts from Farkas was like pulling teeth. Vilkas sighed and shot his brother a look. _And…_

Farkas continued, unphased, “Well, the stranger didn’t like it. She warned Aela plenty to back off but when Aela here took the first swing, the stranger beat her to pieces.” 

“And you didn’t help her?” 

“Nope.” 

“Farkas!” 

Vilkas resisted the urge to continue his scolding as they had finally reached Aela’s room. Vilkas let go and stood back as Farkas lay the woman down on the fur covered cot. Looking at her now, the damage was not as bad as he had originally thought. She was bruised for sure but most of the blood was leaking from her lips. She would heal, Vilkas was sure, and as she did she would be mean as a damn sabre cat. 

Nearby, the low rumbling sound of his brother chuckling caused Vilkas to raise an eyebrow and he turned to face him. 

“What now, Farkas?” 

The bigger man glanced over and smiled. “I think it’s funny, that’s all.” 

“One of your shield-sisters lost a fight and it’s funny?” Vilkas’ voice was harsher than he meant it to be but Farkas took no notice. He just continued to chuckle. 

_Did I hit him too hard when we were pups?_ Vilkas wondered that often. _Maybe banged his head on the Skyforge? No, no…Farkas is just…Farkas._

Shaking his head, Vilkas let his frustration go and slapped Farkas on the shoulder. He couldn’t fault his brother for finding the situation funny. Glancing back over his shoulder once more, Vilkas caught himself grinning. How many times had Aela knocked them both on their arses? Indeed, Farkas may have been right to laugh. 

…………………………………………. 

Her pockets heavy with the gold she’d found in Volunruud, Isith made her way back to the Dawnstar sanctuary. Beneath her, the enormous black steed Shadowmere, whickered. Isith reached down and stroked the horse gently, her fingers catching in the coarse black mane. During her adventures for the Brotherhood, she and the horse had become close and had much the same relationship as a loyal dog to its master. More often than not, she considered the horse to be the one thing she truly owed thanks to the Brotherhood for. 

The horse seemed to have caught on to his rider’s somber mood and subsequently remained uncharacteristically mellow during the long ride through the snowy mountains. Isith was silent, letting her eyes roam casually over the landscape. Should a threat appear, she would notice but until then, she let her mind linger elsewhere. 

Her time with the Dark Brotherhood weighed heavily on her shoulders and she was unable to shake the guilt that the assassination of Emperor Mede left with her. She had dogged the man relentlessly, blinding herself to the lives she ruined in preparation for his demise. She had nearly ruined her own, multiple times over, just to hunt the man down. Now that he was dead, the feeling of triumph she had expected continued to elude her. 

The normally sure footed Shadowmere stumbled, jerking Isith forward in the saddle. Shaken from her melancholy, she cursed aloud and received an answering snort from the horse. With a sigh she cast her eyes, dry and flakey from the wind, up to the horizon and she noticed smoke stacks in the air. No doubt the people of Dawnstar were huddled in their homes to shield themselves from the winter cold. Isith, however, no longer felt the cold. The icy winds went unnoticed as they bit through her armor. No, instead she continued onward toward the sanctuary, suddenly quite sure of what she was about to do. 


	2. Chapter 2

As expected, the Dawnstar sanctuary was mostly silent. Somehow, Isith felt colder here than she had outside amongst the snow and ice. From the depths of the sanctuary, Cicero’s chillingly familiar laughter echoed up to her ears. Isith frowned and shook her head. The mad Keeper irritated her but if she was being honest, she trusted him far more than any remaining Brotherhood members. 

Removing her hooded cowl, she stepped further into the cavernous structure, taking particular care to avoid looking at the sarcophagus that was propped in the corner. It had been Cicero’s idea to place the Nightmother there so that she could “meet and greet” all who entered. As Listener, the mummified corpse only served to unnerve Isith these days, a constant reminder of the sins she had committed for the formless dark shroud of evil. 

Even as she kept her distance, the echoes of the Nightmother’s call rang in the back of her mind. It was maddening. Isith cringed and forced herself onward, ignoring the hissing voice in her mind. 

_Get out of my head, you old hag._ Whether or not the deceased woman could hear her thoughts, Isith wasn’t sure. And frankly, she had stopped caring. As far as she was concerned, she was Listener no longer. The fun part, of course, would be telling her guild siblings about it. 

From out of nowhere, a presence appeared beside her. A small cold hand gripped hers and the Nord flinched. 

“Did I frighten you, Listener?” 

The tinkle of little Babette’s voice caused Isith to grimace. The little girl, or more accurately, midget vampire, giggled as Isith looked down at her, eyes wide. 

“I prefer the term surprised.” Isith mumbled, shaking Babette’s grip loose. Her hand felt cold and clammy where the vampire had touched it. 

Babette grumbled, crossing her short arms over her chest. “You’re no fun, you know that?” 

“Says the evil ten year old.” _I don’t like kids…especially the maniacal dead kind._ Isith shivered just thinking about it. She would rather snuggle up with the Nightmother than spend more than two minutes in the little bloodsucker’s presence. 

The child frowned, her long canines peeking over the edge of her chapped lips. The Listener edged away towards the staircase, leaving Babette to stand alone near her alchemy lab, pouting silently. 

“Where’s Nazir?” Isith called back over her shoulder. She had a few words for the Redguard. 

“He’s around here somewhere.” Babette replied, suddenly occupied with the alchemy lab. Thankfully, even though she was 300 years past her childhood, Babette still had the attention span of a little girl. 

Isith grunted an unintelligible response and continued on her way. The sanctuary was colder the deeper in she went, due in part to the numerous ice caverns that were carved just beyond the stone of the walls. _Is it really that hard to light fire? I should make a rule: tenant number six – Never freeze the Listener’s arse off._ It made sense. An assassin with frostbitten fingers couldn’t very well be expected to wield a weapon effectively. 

Mumbling as she went along, Isith was forced to remind herself that she didn’t plan on setting foot inside this sanctuary again after today. If the others wanted to be cold, so be it. Eventually, she found Nazir dozing in the dining room, his feet propped on top of the table. 

Isith walked silently over to him, bending low next to the Redguard’s ear. 

“Wake up, sunshine!” Her voice was loud and clear, reverberating off the walls. 

Nazir started, jumping to his feet as nimbly as a khajiit and brandished his dagger. His dark eyes narrowed when he noticed Isith watching him, a satisfied smirk plastered over her face. 

His hands dropped and he sheathed his dagger once more. His greeting was curt. 

“Listener.” 

“Salutations¸ Nazir. I have something for you.” Isith reaching behind her back and loosened the large money pouch that was secured there. She tossed it to her second in command. Nazir caught it, weighing it carefully. For the first time, he smiled. It was bright and twisted thing. He may have been handsome once, but the years of murder had taken their toll on him. It was a grin of someone who was fiendishly delighted instead of simply pleased. 

Almost regretfully, Nazir let the heavy bag of gold fall to the table. 

“I hear we’ve lost our emperor.” His eyes flashed in Isith’s direction. 

The Nord gritted her teeth as the muscles in her face tightened involuntarily. She simply nodded. 

“Was it as glorious as I hear?” Nazir asked. He sat upon the table, one foot in a chair nearby. 

Isith fought back a rush of bile in her throat. _This_ was why she needed to be free of the Brotherhood. She could no longer stand the nonchalant view of taking lives and refused to be entertained by the thought. 

She managed a shrug. “I never kill and tell.” She said. 

Nazir’s face fell and he once again turned his attention to the sack of gold. “How much?” He thumbed at the bag. 

“Twenty thousand.” 

The Redguard whistled. The initial impression soon wore off and he cut his eyes at Isith. “And how much did you keep?” 

Isith scowled. _Damned blood money_ …even now, the gold reeked of death. No, she hadn’t desired a single septim of it. 

“None of it. It belongs to the Dark Brotherhood. I figure you can start rebuilding the Sanctuary. Make it…cozier.” 

“Aren’t you confusing your pronouns there, Listener? You’ll be the one rebuilding, not I.” 

Isith shook her head. This was the part she had been dreading. Every assassin within these walls was unpredictable and quick to anger. Just to be ready, she took a step away from the other assassin, disguising her movement as if she was simply shifting her posture. “I’m taking a bit of hiatus, Nazir.” _More like a life-long vacation._

Laughter, cold and cruel, erupted from the man’s lips. His head tilted back and his hands flew out to brace himself. 

“Are you tired of- ha!” another bout of laughter interrupted his words, “Of our line of work, Isith?” 

The Listener inhaled carefully. Whether or not she managed to walk out of the sanctuary unscathed depended on her performance here and now. 

She smirked, her full lips quirking upwards in a convincing attempt at mockery. “Don’t be a fool,” she retorted, sharp enough to command respect from her subordinate, “Killing the good Emperor was hard work. I think I deserve a break. After all, none of you kowtowers bothered to lift a finger.” 

She moved towards her fellow assassin, suddenly the very image of a woman to be feared and respected. Her shoulders drew back, her back straight, and there was swagger in each step. Nazir shifted uncomfortably as she neared. Isith came to rest in front of him, placing her hands on either side of his body. 

“I can understand that, Listener.” The Redguard’s voice was calm but there was an unmistakable note of underlying tension. He had only seen Isith like this once before when Astrid’s betrayal had been revealed. Normally, she was pleasant and somewhat unprofessional but Nazir clearly understood that when this woman meant business, she was anything but questionable. 

“Good,” Isith whispered, her voice low. Her cold green eyes met his as she continued, “Keep an eye on the sanctuary, Nazir. It best be in better condition when I return.” 

With that, Isith pushed herself away and replaced her cold countenance with a more cheerful one. Even so, she glared one last time at the other assassin for good measure before sauntering out of the room. 

As she expected, Nazir had not raised the question of who would take up delivering the Nightmother’s contracts, mostly because he still placed little faith in the mummy’s legitimacy. Isith suspected the Brotherhood would continue much like it had before she ever joined. Paid contracts would come and go and she would be free of the damnable bloodshed. 

For the first time in several weeks the air felt clear around her. What should she do? Where should she go? _I could go visit High Hrothgar. Surely ol’ Arngeir misses me by now. I bet he has a long list of Dragonborn related chores for me to do._ For some reason, the idea of saving the world so soon after single-handedly plunging the nation into political turmoil didn’t appeal to her. _Hmm…maybe later._

Right now, Isith wanted to get as far away from Dawnstar as she possibly could. She gathered what few belongings she had stashed in her quarters and beat a hasty retreat from the assassins she was leaving behind. 

…………………………………………….. 

Whiterun seemed like the natural choice. A lovely climate, sort of friendly locals, and positively terrible food. It had been a long time since Isith had visited any city on anything other than business and she settled in nicely to the Bannered Mare. The innkeeper had insisted at first on giving her the first floor room but the idea didn’t set well with Isith, seeing as how she had recently assassinated a man in there and all. Instead, Isith asked politely for one of the smaller second story rooms. 

“What can I say, I like a good view.” She said charmingly as she accepted the keys from the innkeeper. The woman only shrugged and went back to her business. 

Isith dumped what extra gear she was carrying on the bed and locked the door behind her as she exited. There was no time for napping, no matter how appealing it seemed. She hardly took the time to stretch her sore muscles. Her back popped. Her elbows popped. Everything was popping. No, it was definitely best to keep moving. The smells of fresh herbs and breads from the nearby market wafted in through the inn’s open windows, appealing to the growling sound that was currently coming from her stomach. The idea of celebrating her new found freedom with a few sweet rolls delighted her and she made her way to the market square. 

Much to her dismay, the quick jaunt through town she had planned ended both abrubtly and badly. She had only made it a few yards outside of the Mare, barely having time to look over the merchants’ goods, when a rough hand landed squarely on her shoulder. 

“Hey!” Thankfully, the voice was unfamiliar. 

Isith shook the hand from her shoulder and turned around to face the unwelcome admire before her. 

“Hello to y-“ The Nord woman’s voice trailed off as her eyes trailed up…and up. Instead of finding herself face- to- face with the stranger, she discovered she was more face-to-very-very-large-chest. The man who had stopped her was looking down at her, his eyes waiting patiently for her to come to terms with his size. It briefly occurred to her that he probably had this problem often. 

“Wow, you’re big.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. 

Indeed he was. Nords were big people but most of them didn’t have anything on the man in front of her. He was broad shouldered with arms that looked like he spent his spare time cracking walnut shells with his biceps. Shoulder length black hair framed his face, which was so grimy all Isith could make out was the pale blue of his eyes. 

“I’m Farkas.” The man said. His voice caused a pleasant rumbling in his chest that Isith could hear from where she stood. If he was trying to be intimidating, he was failing miserably at it. Instead of shaking her down or shoving a finger in her face, he continued to watch her quietly, a half-smile on his face. 

“Err, hello, Farkas.” Isith tried not to marvel any longer at his size and instead met his eyes. They were kind and surprisingly gentle and she knew immediately that she had seen this man before. He had been one of the Companions to witness her not so stellar attempt at fighting the giant. He had also been one of the spectators who saw her put the red-headed warrior in her place a few days earlier. Isith became suddenly weary. Was he here to return the favor?   
“Do you remember me?” 

“Frankly, big guy, you’re a little hard to forget.” Isith replied. She slapped his shoulder in good humor, hoping to the gods that he wouldn’t slap back. “You’re with the Companions, yes?” 

Farkas seemed deeply pleased that she remembered him and his formerly mild smile broke out into a full fledged grin. 

“I am.” 

“Good for you. So, how’s your friend doing?” 

“Aela? The woman who’s nose you broke? Oh, she’s fine. That’s what I’m here about.” 

Isith frowned, stepping backward. She was unarmed and if she had to go fist-to-cuffs with the enormous figure in front of her, she would most certainly lose. 

Farkas appeared to sense her nervousness and his hands shot out to grab her shoulders. The movement was friendly, one meant for reassurance instead of aggression, and Isith forced herself to stifle a whimper. She eyed him suspiciously before relaxing once more under his callused grip. 

Farkas patted her arms gently and said, “I think you should join the Companions. You’ve impressed several people and they haven’t even met you yet.” 

“Pulverizing one of your own _impresses_ you people?” Isith’s voice raised a few octaves, as did her eyebrows. 

“Indeed, especially if it’s someone as skilled as Aela.” Farkas didn’t seem to mind the negative connotations of “pulverize.” 

Still trapped within the big man’s grip, Isith felt she had few options other than to agree. She nodded her head and was rewarded with release. 

“Follow me…” Farkas’ voice trailed off and he looked at her once more. He blinked and she blinked back. It occurred to the assassin that she hadn’t given him her name. 

“Isith. I’m Isith.” She finally said. 

That same smile appeared once again and Farkas began walking, leaving the former assassin to double time it at his side. 

……………………………………….. 

Sharing a meal with Kodlak Whitemane never ceased to inspire Vilkas. He admired the old man like a father. Though Kodlak was far too modest to ever acknowledge the title, he was the unofficial leader of the Companions in Whiterun. A proud man with hair and a beard as bushy and wild as a lion’s mane, Kodlak looked the part of a time-grizzled warrior. His years of service to Skyrim had brought him the perfect balance of mild-manners and respect. More so than anyone, he was someone who could help bear the burdens of the Circle. 

Vilkas had come to him earlier in an effort to vent his frustrations with his beastblood. It was a struggle that Kodlak shared. The younger man’s mind was heavy with thoughts of the Call that he and his brother still felt. Kodlak did his best to alleviate his concerns. Or at least, he was in the process of doing so when Farkas came bounding in. 

“Kodlak, I’ve found some new blood.” Farkas was as chipper as Vilkas had seen him in days. Regardless, he winced at his brother’s informality with their leader. 

Both Kodlak and Vilkas turned their attention to the woman standing at Farkas’ side. She was small for a Nord, compact and leanly muscled. Her golden hair had been clipped close to her scalp, leaving a few strands long enough to cover part of her forehead. Her face was heart-shaped and her features softer than many other women of her race. Quick, intelligent green eyes flitted from him to Kodlak, sizing them up. To Vilkas, though she was pretty, she looked better suited the life of a bard than that of a warrior. Vilkas sat forward and massaged the bridge of his nose. He would have to have a long talk with Farkas about recruiting women for their looks. 

The woman piped up, her voice annoyingly soft and melodious. “I’d like to join the Companions.” 

Vilkas did little to hide his scoff, earning him a sharp glare from his twin. 

To his surprise, Kodlak did not dismiss her immediately. “Would you now? Let me have a look at you.” 

The old man’s eyes fell on her face and an odd fleeting look of recognition flashed through his eyes. Vilkas nearly missed it. Kodlak’s expression softened to something akin to easy comfort. Farkas noticed it too and looked infinitely pleased with himself. 

“Yes, a certain strength in spirit.” Kodlak seemed to be speaking more to himself than the girl. 

Vilkas was taken aback. He grumbled, “Master, surely you are not truly considering accepting _her_.” 

The woman’s eyes narrowed and the green orbs turned icy. Her lips twitched as if she was fighting back a biting retort. Farkas nudged her gently with his elbow and she calmed. 

Kodlak turned his gaze to Vilkas and scolded him, causing the younger man to fold his arms with a huff and look away. “I’ve never even heard of her.” 

“Yes you have.” Farkas corrected. 

Vilkas turned to glare needles into his twin. 

“This is the woman who thrashed Aela so bad.” Farkas reported the fact cheerfully. 

_By Ysgramor, he admires her…_ Obviously, Vilkas’ earlier suspicions had been right. Farkas really must have bumped his head a little too hard as a child. 

The rest of the conversation passed without Vilkas really listening. It was only at the tail end that his attention was once more focused on the girl when Kodlak instructed him to take her out and test her sword arm. 

Farkas frowned, “She bested Aela. Is that not proof enough?” 

Kodlak looked the man over, a kindly smile on his face. “Tales of bar fights tend to be exaggerated, Farkas. Let Vilkas test her metal with a blade.” 

Farkas nodded, though he didn’t look happy. 

Vilkas, on the other hand, seemed to be in much higher spirits at the promise of putting the girl back in her place. He caught her glare as he stood and found it to be a cold, harsh thing. The hair on the back of his neck pricked up and he could not help but feel a sudden weariness. _She is…odd,_ he thought. He could deny it all he wanted but sure enough, a certain fire raged beneath the girl’s exterior. Even without the beast’s senses within him, he could have noticed it. Perturbed, he pushed roughly between his brother and Isith on his way out of the room. 

They followed him, lagging behind a few paces. At one point, he heard the girl whisper to Farkas, “Farkas, do you know what a ‘curmudgeon’ is?” 

Farkas said he didn’t. 

The girl huffed. “Well, your brother is a fine example of one.” 

Vilkas’ grip on the pommel of his sword tightened and he quickened his pace. 

………………………… 

Isith followed Vilkas out of Jorrvaskr and into the dusky afternoon. Farkas remained at her side, though she surmised that it was mostly because he wanted to see firsthand if she could hold her own against his brother. 

The dynamic between the twins was interesting to say the least and she found herself a little envious of the relationship. Had she ever had any siblings? She supposed she would never find out. As they approached the training yard, she measured up the grumpier of the two men. He was smaller than Farkas but still larger than Isith. He had several inches on her and that fact plus the great sword strapped across his back would mean he had the advantage of reach. His armor would weigh him down though likely not enough to give Isith the break she would need. She quickly masked the signs of worry that threatened to overtake her. She had slain dragons, assassinated rulers, and won bets with gods…what did she have to fear from this man? _Embarrassment_. Even thinking of the word made her cringe. 

Isith took her place across the training ground from Vilkas and did her best to ignore the small crowd of Companions that was gathering. A flash of red alerted her to the presence of Aela. Isith spared a glance at the woman. She looked well and her bruises were healing nicely. For no reason other than good will, Isith felt relieved. The feeling, however, was brief as Vilkas called over to her. 

“Are you ready, whelp?” 

Isith glowered at him. “I’m waiting on you, precious.” 

The corners of Vilkas’ mouth twitch up in a smirk and he drew his great sword. A few yards away, Isith unsheathed her dual scimitars. She twirled the blades a few times to loosen her wrists. 

A faint nod alerted her to the impending onslaught of attacks. Vilkas covered the distance between them with surprising speed and brought his heavy blade crashed down. Isith tilted one of her own swords above her head at a downwards angle so that the heavier sword glided off. Vilkas recovered quickly and slashed back across her midsection, leaving her no option but to leap backwards. 

Isith countered with a double-bladed sweep. The edge of one scimitar collided with the iron of Vilkas’ armor, scraping across the dark metal hard enough to create sparks of heat. 

Isith did not wait for the next attack to come. Her best bet was to lead in heavy with offence, as the strength required to fend off such heavy attacks one-handed would wear her down quickly. She twirled around, letting her momentum draw the blades along. Vilkas managed to dodge but she swung again, clipping him under a pauldron. She stayed close, never giving him room enough to swing his larger sword and as a result he was forced to evade her attacks. 

With a cry of frustration, Vilkas lashed out with his fist and caught her on the side. Isith grunted and tumbled back from her loss of momentum. Again Vilkas decided to forgo his weapon and attempted to distance her once more by lashing out with a kick aimed at her gut. Isith saw the movement in his leg as he drew his knee up and anticipated it. Sir Curmudgeon was quick but she intended to prove she was quicker. 

She feinted to the side just before his heel connected with her body and wrapped one arm under his knee. With her free hand she leapt in close to hook his sword arm to her body to stop him from swinging. With all her strength she drove him back and down onto the ground. Vilkas roared in fury and kicked his legs out to scramble away. He turned away from her, still on all fours, but Isith hopped on top of him, pressing him into the sand. Her hand embedded itself in his thick mess of hair and she yanked his head back, revealing his throat. 

The fight was over as soon as she pressed her blade to the exposed skin of his neck. 

“Do you yield?” She asked breathlessly. 

Vilkas’ eyes fell on the group of his friends standing nearby. To his horror and shame, their faces were filled with excited smiles and they chattered amongst themselves, impressed by their comrade’s unexpected defeat. Only Farkas appeared unsure of what to make of the outcome. Sure, his new best friend had whipped his brother but yet…an unspoken understanding of Vilkas’ embarrassment passed between them. 

With a grunt, Vilkas agreed to the yield. 

Isith slid off of him and extended her hand. She frowned when Vilkas swatted it away. _Nobody likes a sore loser…_ she thought with a sigh. She left him to get up on his own and went to collect her other blade. By the time she had wiped it off and sheathed it, Vilkas crawled to his feet and came to stand before her. 

He avoided her eyes as he spoke. “That…was not bad. You might last the week, after all.” 

Isith decided against provoking him. She had been on the losing side of many a pissing match and she never enjoyed being gloated at. 

“Thank you, Vilkas.” 

“Don’t think me yet, girl. You’re still a whelp to us. For now, you do as we say.” He thrust out his sword to her. 

“Is this some sort of symbolism?” Isith asked, looking down at the blade. 

“You’re charming,” Vilkas replied with a scowl, “And no…take it up to the Skyforge and have it repaired.” 

“Yes, master.” Isith drew a clenched fist sharply over her heart in a clipped Imperial-style salute. Snatching the sword away, she trotted off towards the Skyforge. 

Despite the cold shoulder, Isith was secretly pleased with her reception thus far. The Companions were a close nit group, slow to trust and even slower to show appreciation, but she had a feeling that this place would become home soon enough. There was no constant talk of murders or a dread lord but in its place was a friendly air of camaraderie. 

Without a doubt, the Companions were hailed throughout Skyrim as an honorable group that rescued damsels and protected homesteads. For the right price, they raised their blades in defense of those who may have been too weak to do so themselves. Would she find redemption here? The idea made her scoff. _I don’t need redemption…I just need…change. A different way, with different people. I can’t change what I’ve done but here…maybe I can put a little good back in the world._

Her thoughts were interrupted as she came to the top of the Skyforge. Seated at the gigantic forge was the man she figured had to be Eorlund Gray-mane. He looked up at her from the length of metal he was hammering and nodded in greeting. 

Isith passed the sword to him and explained that Vilkas had sent her. Though he was a man of few words, Eorlund did pass on some comforting advice before sending her off on another errand. 

With another delivery in tow, she headed back into Jorrvaskr to Aela’s lair. _This ought to be interesting._ Isith found the flame-haired warrior in her quarters. Through the door she heard voices, Aela’s and another belonging to a man she recognized as Skjor. She paused a moment at the threshold and listened. 

“The boy went to see Kodlak again today.” Skjor’s gruff vocals did little to hide the fact that he was annoyed. 

“Vilkas? Bah…of course it was Vilkas. He seems troubled of late.” 

“Ha! Troubled? He and Farkas both haven’t been on a hunt in ages. It’s no wonder their blood is boiling…a man shouldn’t hold back like that.” 

“Indeed.” 

_Well, well…hunting doesn’t exactly set my mind at ease but different strokes for different folks, I suppose. Farkas didn’t seem particularly unbalanced. Vilkas…well, maybe slaughtering something fluffy might appeal to him._ With a shrug, Isith rapped her knuckles on the door before pushing it open. 

To her surprise, Aela grinned when she saw her. Isith, however, maintained a look of neutrality. The woman had called her a coward twice now and no amount of new found sisterly love was going to change that. 

Isith passed off the shield she had been carrying and handed it to Aela, who took it and, after examining it, placed it aside. 

“Thank you, shield-sister.” 

“Eorlund made me do it.” Isith replied dryly. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Skjor giving her a once over. His one good eye flitted up and down her person as she stood there. 

“You’re the one I saw thrashing Vilkas earlier.” He remarked. 

“Yes, that was I.” _I’d be happy to oblige thrashing you, old man, if you don’t stop staring._

Before Skjor said anything more, Aela placed a gloved hand on the smaller woman’s shoulder, drawing her attention. 

“Tell me, girl. Do you think you could take Vilkas in a real fight?” 

Isith eyed her carefully, unsure of what the woman wanted to hear. Finally, she spoke. “That depends. Is Farkas helping him?” 

Beside Aela, Skjor let out a chuckle. “We finally got one with some personality, Aela.” 

“Hmm, so it seems.” 

If Red appreciated the joke, she did not show it. Instead, she let her hand linger a moment longer before removing it. Her eyes locked onto Isith’s for the briefest of seconds, as if searching for something they might reveal that her words would not. 

Unsatisfied with what she found, Aela stepped away, shouting for Farkas. 

“He’ll show you where you’ll be staying.” She grumbled. 

Isith nodded and a few moments later she heard Farkas’ footsteps approaching in the hallway, the clank of his steel boots reverberating off the stone floor. Her nerves began to abate as he drew closer. Save for Kodlak, Farkas was the only other Companion who seemed remotely interested in her. Not to mention, she was more than ready to get away from Aela. 

Sure enough, Farkas appeared in the doorway seconds later. Those pale blue eyes of his glanced appreciatively at Isith, so quick she nearly missed it. 

“Did you call me?” 

Aela rolled her eyes, a movement that was mostly disguised by the shadows of her war paint. “Of course we did, icebrain.” She snapped. 

Isith recoiled and turned, eyes full of antipathy, to look at the other woman. Unable to restrain herself, she mumbled an expletive under her breath, which Aela heard but chose to ignore. 

“Show this new blood-“ 

“Isith.” Farkas corrected. 

Aela let out an exasperated sigh. “Show _Isith_ where the rest of the whelps sleep.” 

Isith didn’t bother to disguise her glowering visage even as Farkas led her away. She followed him down the hall, happy to leave her new arch nemesis behind. She glanced over to Farkas and found that he didn’t seem the least bit bothered by Aela’s remark. 

The Nord looked at her and appeared to guess what she was thinking. 

“They like to tease me but they’re good people.” He said quietly, that pleasant timbre from his voice inadvertently soothing the woman beside him. 

“Uh huh, I bet.” 

“Well, they are.” For the first time sense she had met him, he actually seemed annoyed. _Fiercely loyal? That’s a new one._ Isith almost admired the man. 

Farkas sighed, a heavy sound, and shrugged. The rest of the trip down the hall passed in relative silence. When they reached the door to the barracks, Isith hesitated. She looked up at Farkas, green eyes alive as they studied him. If he were cleaner and war-paint free, he would be handsome. His dark hair and tanned skin set him apart from other Nords. Isith fought a momentary desire to reach up and run her thumb along his weathered, stubble-covered chin. She shook off the notion, well, she really shook off the entire observation and took a step back. 

“So…um, how’s your brother?” 

Farkas looked at her once again, back from whatever daydream he was lost in. “Vilkas is fine. He was more impressed than he let on, I think. You did a good thing by not rubbing it in.” 

Isith smiled, bright and charming, “Oh, I’m saving it for later.” 

She was pleased to see Farkas grin back before looking away again nervously. Anyone who was less observant might have missed the blush that was slowly creeping up beneath the layers of dirt and scruff. 

Isith nudged him playfully with her arm before slipping into the barracks for the day. 

_erHhh_


	3. Chapter 3

The camp fire crackled, its flames licking up towards the starry sky. The smoky scent of firewood burning filled the lungs of the two Companions. Isith sat across the fire from her comrade. Every attempt at eye contact she made was denied. Farkas simply looked away, his emotions hidden behind a somber mask. One of them had to speak sooner or later. The problem was that neither of them knew where to begin. 

………….Earlier that day………. 

_“You should have a look around; see if you can find anything to open that gate.” Farkas pointed to the other side of the room towards a heavy iron barrier that blocked their progress further into Dustman’s Cairn._

_So far, the mission was going well. Farkas seemed impressed with Isith’s ability to take the enemy by surprise. Any resistance they encountered fell to their blades within a few minutes. Small talk was kept at a minimum and the silence that lay between them was not uncomfortable. Isith would occasionally steal glances at the big man following her, telling herself that it only to make sure he was not lagging behind. Truthfully, she was admiring the way his muscles flexed with each movement he made._

_Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, she made her way cautiously across the open space of the room. In front of her, a section of the wall had been carved out to allow for a recess. Rotten shelves and moth-eaten linens littered the inside of the recess along with several old tomes long past their glory days. The glint of tinted glass in the torch light caught her attention._

Ooo…potions _! Isith meandered over to investigate. Sure enough a few dusty phials lay amidst the wood of the shelves, still stoppered from disuse. As she was reaching to collect them, she noticed a lever just to her left._ Oh, that’s convenient! _She thought happily_. __

_“Hey, big guy! I found a switch!” She called over to Farkas and reached out to pull the lever._

_The clinking of metal gears just above her head alerted her to her mistake. As fast as her reflexes were, she wasn’t quick enough to make it out before a second gate fell in front of her. She collided with the iron bars just as they fell._

_From across the room, she heard Farkas chuckle._

_“Now, look what you’ve done. And people say I’m the slow one.”_

_“You’re hilarious, Farkas. Get me out of here.”_

_The big Nord ambled toward her in no particular hurry, examining the walls as he did so._

_“There’s no switch here. Wait a minute while I –“_

_His voice was drowned out by the sudden clanking of armor and weapons. Before either of the Companions could register what was happening, the room flooded with enemies. They quickly encircled Farkas, who had his greatsword at the ready._

_An Imperial scoundrel came to stand by the iron gate that held Isith at bay. He leered at her, his breath tinged with the stink of skooma._

_“Did the puppy get locked in the little cage?” His lips peeled back to reveal teeth black with decay._

_Isith glowered at him and he pawed at her through the bars._

_He called back to his friends, “Hurry up and kill the mutt so that we can have some fun with this one!”_

_Isith’s biting retort was cut short as Farkas spoke for her._

_“You won’t touch her.”_

_Isith shouted, “Damn it, Farkas, get out of here! There’s too many!”_

_Her plea went unanswered as Farkas fell to the ground, doubled over and snarling. Isith panicked. Had he been hit? The bandits hadn’t made attacked so far. The sickening sound of bones snapping drew her eyes once more to her friend. Maybe it was the shadows of the room or the flickering of the torches but she could have sworn that Farkas was…changing._

_With a strangled cry, he ripped away the armor from his shoulders, snapping the thick leather straps like nothing. To his right, one bandit ordered a charge and ran head first towards him. The fool never made it. Farkas reached out with a clawed hand and gripped the man by the throat, tossing him roughly against a wall._

_A coat of jet black fur sprouted from his skin and his head bent forward out of sight. A moment later he rose up again. Only it wasn’t Farkas anymore. If Isith hadn’t of watched it with her own eyes she would never have believed it. The beast tore through the remaining bandits as they charged, swatting them aside like flies._

_The sound of flesh tearing as it met with the creature’s claws was enough to make Isith nauseous. She stumbled away out of instinct as a spray of hot blood squirted across her face and eyes, momentarily blinding her._

_By the time she was able to see again, every one of the enemies lay dead before her. Arms and hands lay separate from the original bodies they had been attached to only moments before. The sweet coppery smell of blood invaded Isith’s nostrils, reminding her too clearly of events in her past._

_Fearful, she called out for Farkas but received no answer. Several long minutes went by before she heard the sound of gears shifting overhead and the gate finally lifted. She stumbled out just as Farkas came around the corner._

_The look of shame in his eyes pained her more deeply than anything she had seen in a long while. It was a look she had witnessed on many a man’s face just before she ran them through._

_Farkas stopped just short of her and ran a bloodied hand through his hair. A piece of skin clung to the dark locks and he flicked it off._

_“I hope I didn’t scare you.” He mumbled. He had never been good with words and now more than ever he was at a loss of what to say._

_Isith’s green eyes narrowed at him and she pressed her lips together in a thin line._

_Farkas turned his head away, desperately trying to find something else to say._

_“Don’t be angry, please.” He said quietly._

_Isith lashed out, swatting him across his chest. “Angry? You great oaf, do you know how long I was stuck in that cage?”_

_Farkas’ eyes turned to her suddenly. That…was not the reaction he expected. Isith turned away, still pawing at the blood that was drying on her face. She went over to his armor, which was shredded and useless. For the first time she realized he was nearly nude, her initial shock of the experience had kept her from noticing._

_Even without all the armor, he still dwarfed her in size. Perhaps even more so. The man had muscles…everywhere. To Isith’s quiet delight, he was not nearly as hairy as she expected him to be, especially given the new knowledge that he was a werewolf. It was almost painful to pry her eyes off of him._

_She cleared her throat. “You should find some clothes.”_

_“Yep,” was all he said._

_………………………………………._

That encounter had been several hours ago and Farkas still hadn’t found any clothes. After discovering the fragments of Wuuthrad, the pair had made camp not far from the cairn near a small stream. Although, Isith would never admit it aloud, she had been a little sad to see the giant Nord stop battling draugr while half naked. 

It wasn’t fair, she knew, to think such things while her friend was clearly in inner turmoil. The past few hours had been quiet even for Farkas. 

_Got to break the ice somehow…_ With a determined breath, Isith finally spoke. 

“So…a werewolf huh?” 

Farkas was silent for a moment longer. “Yes. For most of my life. Vilkas, too, and all the members of the Circle.” 

Isith nodded faintly, sticking her lip out as she continued to search for words. 

Farkas found them for her. “You took it better than most. I expected you to be afraid.” 

At that, Isith actually managed a laugh. She looked at him from over the flames, the heat obscuring his features. 

“I’ve been to a lot of places, Farkas. You’re not the first werewolf I’ve ever met.” She paused long enough to kick a small pebble into the fire. “Granted, you’re the friendliest one.” 

She heard him shuffle and looked up to see him come over to her. He sat down near her and drew his knees into his chest. The pose caused what was left of his leather breeches to stretch even tighter over his thighs. Isith was glad she could blame her flush on the heat of the fire. 

“Honest?” he asked. 

“Right hand to Talos.” She assured him with smile. 

She saved him the trouble of asking about the meaning behind her words and told him anyway, “The first one I ever met was a…business associate of mine. His name was-“ Isith stopped herself from finishing the sentence. 

_By the gods, what am I saying?_ It suddenly occurred to her that Farkas would know the man she was talking about. Before joining the Dark Brotherhood, Arnbjorn was a member of the Companions. 

Farkas was looking at her expectantly. 

“You know what, I don’t actually remember his name,” she lied, “But I do know that he was very disagreeable.” _Okay, well maybe that last part is truthful._ She could see that Farkas still wasn’t entirely convinced. 

With an aggravated huff, she added “Look, that’s not the point. Point is, grumpy or not, the man didn’t just try to tear me apart whenever I walked by him. He controlled it. Just like you do, Farkas. I understand that there’s this big, scary monster roaming around in there,” she jabbed at his chest for emphasis, “But it’s not _you_.” 

_There, rant complete._ She stole a glimpse of his face and caught him looking intently at her. She suddenly became all too aware of how close he was really sitting. _Damn it, big guy, say something! Stop looking at me like I’m damn sweet roll._

He moved faster than she thought he could and closed the remaining distance between them. He balanced himself on his knees in front of her and took one of her hands in his. It was hot, nearly searing. 

“I am proud to call you a shield-sister, Isith.” There was an unmistakable huskiness to his voice that had not been there before. 

“That’s nice, Farkas.” Isith whispered, though it was barely more than a croak. 

He ignored her and continued, “You proved yourself today…” Whatever else he said got lost en route as Isith’s attention turned to the movement of his lips. They were such nice lips, full and wide…she absently wondered if they would be as warm as his hands. Her grip involuntarily tightened around his hand and caused him to stumble over whatever words he was saying. His eyes flicked down at her hand and then once again up to her face. The look there was one she had seen from many men. 

Isith couldn’t take any more. She jerked her hand from his, lest she use it as leverage to straddle him right then. Shakily, she clambered to her feet and stepped away, putting immediate distance between her and the very handsome, very masculine figure. 

“A bath!” she yelped. 

Farkas looked up at her, dumbfounded, his eyes still cloudy with lust. 

“I need a bath!” _A cold, cold bath._ “You should bathe too! But not yet! Not, you know,” she tripped over a log as she retreated, “Not with me. After me, yes, after. Later.” 

With that, Isith hurried away out of sight of the camp, pulling off pieces of armor as she went, and wading gratefully into the chilly waters of the mountain stream. 

……………………………………………….. 

The trip back to Jorrvaskr was not as awkward as Isith had originally feared. She cracked a joke here and there and Farkas laughed. When she asked him about his past with the Companions, he answered. The only difference in his demeanor was that he started walking a little closer to her. 

During her Joining ceremony, Farkas vouched for her as he promised he would. It was an experience unlike any she could remember…an indescribable feeling of really belonging somewhere. Even with the Thieves Guild, there had been no formal oath, only the promise of riches and bedmates. The dark shadows of her recent past seemed distant now. Even Vilkas and Aela managed to choke out some form of congratulations. 

In the midst of the celebration, she made the decision to tell Kodlak that she knew the secret of the Circle. Thankfully, the old man was not angry but was surprisingly relieved. 

“We would have told you eventually, anyway.” He told her. 

Isith thanked him and retired early from the festivities. A few minutes later, she found herself sleeping soundly before anyone had even noticed she was gone. 

………………………………….. 

The morning found Isith too soon. Groggily, she stumbled out of bed. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she fumbled around her bedside table for the bowl of water sitting there. Yawning, she pulled the bowl to the edge of the table and dipped her hands in, bringing a handful of water to her face. It was warm and muddy. Despite her sleepiness, she cursed and let the water slosh back into the basin. Rubbing her eyes once more she noticed the water was dirty. Bits of debris and dirt floated amidst the gross liquid. 

Grumbling, Isith decided to forgo washing her face and reached into one of the drawers for a fresh sprig of mint she kept there. She chewed as she knelt down beside her chest and fished for her leather slippers and her dagger. Her slippers were there but the dagger was not. _Odd,_ she thought, _I always put it here._ She supposed it wouldn’t hurt her to venture to breakfast unarmed. 

The main hall of Jorrvaskr was relatively quite that morning and most of the other Companions were already settled into their meals. She caught herself glancing around for Farkas but was disappointed when she did not see him. Since first arriving at Jorrvaskr, she had taken most of her meals beside him. Begrudgingly, Isith took a seat between Aela and Athis. The Dark Elf would at least provide some distraction from the other Nord woman. 

Much too Isith’s surprise, as soon as she sat down Aela clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Good morning, sister!” she said jovially. 

Isith cocked an eyebrow and leaned closer to Athis. 

“Morning.” It was more of a grunt than an actual word. 

“Farkas was looking for you earlier.” 

“Earlier? It’s sunrise.” 

Aela shrugged. “He said it was important. He was in his room, last I checked.” 

Isith nodded and reached for a bread roll and a small cheese wedge. Excusing herself, she headed back down to the barracks. 

Farkas’ room was at the end of the hall in the wing to the right of Kodlak’s quarters. She’d never been in his room before but since returning from Dustman’s Cairn she found herself often wandering what it was like. Would it be messy? _Probably. But cozy, too. With a bear skin rug._ A smile spread across her lips as she walked. 

She reached the door and knocked softly. No answer. 

“Farkas?” She raised her voice just enough for him to hear her through the wood of the door. 

The room was silent. Isith gently nudged the door open, peeking in before opening it fully. The room was pitch dark. 

A rustling to her right caused her to whirl around. The briefest of movements caught her eye. She stared, peering deeper into the black, trying to decipher the shadows. 

The next few moments passed too quickly for Isith to register. An ungodly screech cried out from the darkness and a robed figure flew at her. The figure was too small to be Farkas and too frail to be any one of the Companions. Isith reacted by instinct and used the creature’s own momentum to push it aside. With another shriek, the thing crashed into the wall nearby before turning back for another charge. 

It was black as the shadows around it and the only light Isith had was from the dimly lit hallway behind her. To her confusion, the figure feinted to her right and flew past her. She managed a glance at its boney hands as it reached for the handle of the door. The doors slammed closed, shutting out the light. 

Isith held her breath, using her other senses to track the creature’s movements. The room was so silent she could clearly hear the voices of her comrades upstairs. 

Distracted for a moment, she did not have time to react when the figure wailed once more and drove her back against the wall. She shouted and lashed out but her fist met only air. 

There was a sudden pinch near her navel and a split second realization of horror gripped her. Her hands shot down to stop the blade from driving into her but it was too late. The nauseating sound of punctured flesh and organs filled her ears just as the pain ripped through her body. Isith let out a strangled cry as the dagger was dragged up to her breastbone, where it finally rested. 

As her own sight began to fade, a dim light filled the room as if several candles had suddenly been lit all at once. For the first time, the figure appeared clearly. She had seen it many times before…the mummified corpse of the Nightmother. No longer was the corpse stiff with rigamortis, it was now moving as smoothly as any living human. Strands of yellow hair, not so different from Isith’s own, peeked out from the bindings. Hollow eyes peered down at the dying child of Sithis and a brittle smile spread across the corpse’s lips, causing the skin to crack and split. 

“No…” Isith choked as clumps of clotted blood caught in her throat. Her fingers scraped vainly at the robes of the Nightmother. 

The ancient woman bent low over her progeny’s ear, twisting the dagger slowly as she spoke. 

“You can never hide, Listener,” she hissed, “You’re blood is our blood. Your life is _my_ life.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Vilkas heard the screaming before anyone else. It was a horrible, gut-wrenching sound rooted in terror. It was after midnight and he was just past the whelps’ barracks when the first cry ripped through the air. _What in the name of Ysgramor is that?_ He whirled around, body rigid and instincts racing, and leapt towards the door. His own adrenaline combined with the rush of his beastblood set his blood to pumping so that he could hear it beating in his ears. 

Could someone have gotten in during the festivities? _An enemy within the walls of Jorrvaskr? Impossible! More likely that Njada has finally snapped_. Whatever the case, he readied his blade and charged through the door. 

The sight before him was not what he had expected. Bleary-eyed Companions were just rising from their beds in alarm when they all turned to look at him. 

The screaming came from the cot in the corner. Isith lay atop it, flat on her back and writhing. Her arms and legs lashed out, making it hard for anyone to get near her. Her eyes were wide as if she were awake as her hands clawed at some unseen attacker. 

Nearby, Njada, who had backed herself into a corner, snapped “She’s gone mad! Silence her you fool!” 

Athis shoved her roughly, “You’re the one who should be silent!” 

Vilkas strode forward and pushed them from his way to gain a closer look. The screaming was still echoing from the walls, filling the ears of everyone in the room and it shook Vilkas to the core. 

_Gods, what has hold of her?_ He was surely no friend of the new blood but he could stand seeing her like this no longer. 

Another bout of screaming tore from her lips and she squeezed her eyes shut, hiding the dilated green orbs from those around her. Vilkas went to her, pushing aside one of her flailing arms. He pinned her as best he could but she fought, swiping out with her free hand and catching him across the cheek. A trickle of blood oozed from the newly broken skin. 

“Isith!” he snarled, gripping her shoulders and shaking her firmly. He snatched her chin between his fingers and forced her to meet his eyes. “Come back to us, new blood!” 

As suddenly as it had began, her screaming stopped. Her gazed turned fearful as she looked at Vilkas. 

“Vilkas? What-what’s going on?” Her voice was broken and weak from the screaming. 

Before he could respond, a shuffle came from the hallway and the other Circle members rushed in. 

“What in the name of Ysgramor is going on?” Kodlak asked. The old man was dressed in his leather pants and a rumpled cotton shirt. He had clearly been sleeping as his hair was wilder than usual. 

Farkas brushed past Kodlak and came to stand by the cot. “Is she alright?” 

“Yes, she appears fine.” Vilkas answered. 

It did not go unnoticed by Vilkas when his brother reached out to stroke Isith’s hair, smoothing the matted and sweaty mess under his giant palm. Isith turned to face Farkas, breaking away from Vilkas’ grasp. She gave him a short nod and climbed shakily from the bed. 

“I’m fine, really,” she said, “I just…had a terrible dream.” 

From the threshold, Aela scoffed, “It sounded like you were being murdered in you sleep.” 

Even Kodlak nodded at that. The Harbinger went over to the girl and pulled her into a fatherly embrace. 

“You gave us a scare, girl.” He whispered. 

Isith pulled away and backed up, bumping into the night stand behind her. 

“It was a nightmare. Something…from long ago,” she stuttered, “Forgive me, I don’t know what came over me.” 

_A waking nightmare? I’ve never heard of such a thing._

From across the room, Njada mumbled, “I think she’s possessed.” It was a quiet opinion and no one bothered to scold her for it. 

Silently, Vilkas stood from the bed, unable to hide the suspicion in his eyes. 

“We should let you rest.” His voice was quiet but firm. 

Kodlak agreed and asked the others to return to their rooms. Farkas hesitated for a moment, lingering by Isith’s side long enough for her to assure him that she would be fine. 

Vilkas escorted his brother out and turned to watch the young Nord woman one last time. She met his eyes and they narrowed, suddenly afire with a slow-burning ire that had not been there minutes before. It was as if she was daring him to question her. 

“You should get some sleep, Vilkas,” she murmured lowly, “I’m sorry about the scratch.” 

Vilkas glowered at her, his lip curling. As he turned to go, only one thought ran through his mind: _I do not trust her._

Since the drama of the night had passed, he returned to his room, seething. He opened the door to find Farkas waiting for him. 

The bigger Nord had settled himself in a chair near Vilkas’ desk and was impatiently fidgeting around. He shot his brother a dark look as soon as he came into view. 

“What happened?” he barked. 

Vilkas ran a hand through his tangled hair and grumbled. 

“I don’t know Farkas. The girl just started screaming.” 

Farkas jumped up from the chair and began pacing. He repeated the exact same motion Vilkas has just done and ran his fingers over his scalp. 

“She said she had a nightmare.” 

“She’s lying.” Vilkas threw his hand out in exclamation. 

His brother ceased his nervous walking and rounded on the smaller twin. “You can’t know that, Vilkas!” 

Vilkas jabbed a finger at his brother hard enough to knock him back. “Can’t I? You didn’t see her, Farkas. A nightmare is nothing but a bad dream and no one dreams with their eyes open! The whelp’s eyes were as wide-awake as yours or mine.” 

Farkas grunted and turned away. 

Vilkas heaved, expelling the breath he had been holding in. He went over to his brother and clasped his shoulder, spinning him round. 

“Farkas, the girl is not telling us everything. Surely you see that.” As he spoke, his eyes softened to show genuine concern. His twin should not be so affected by the girl. 

Farkas didn’t respond; he simply looked away. 

Vilkas continued, “She comes to us, a complete stranger who can bring down the best of us and we’ve never even heard of her before. Tell me, brother, have you ever spoken with her about her past? Where she comes from? Who she knows?” 

“No. But that doesn’t mean she’s a bad person, Vilkas. She has her secrets but-“ 

“But _what_ secrets, Farkas? What has she left behind that is so terrible it haunts her in the night like a wolf stalking its prey? It doesn’t make sense, I tell you!” 

Farkas let out a heavy sigh and fell back into the chair. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and rubbed his face in his hands. 

“I don’t think she’s what you say she is.” He muttered through his fingers. 

Vilkas knelt before him, “What if someone came to you and told you that I was guilty of some terrible secret? Would you want to believe them?” 

Farkas glanced up. “No.” 

“And why not?” 

“Because you’re my brother and I care about you.” 

“And do you care about the little Nord?” 

“Vilkas!” 

“Answer me, Farkas.” 

Farkas huffed, “Maybe a little.” 

_I knew it…_ His suspicions confirmed, Vilkas pressed on. “Don’t you see? That is why you don’t notice these things about her. You’re kind-hearted, brother, and that’s no fault. But sometimes I fear it blinds you to those around you.” 

Farkas mumbled something under his breath before standing up. He walked to the door before stopping. 

Looking back at his brother with confusion in his eyes, he said quietly, “You’re the smart one, Vilkas. But forgive me if I don’t take just your word for it this time. But,” he glanced out into the hallway as if to check for anyone who might be eves-dropping in the wee hours of the morning, “I’ll talk to her. Maybe she’ll tell me something.” 

His brother left, closing the door behind him, and Vilkas went over to his bed, excited with the prospect of sleep. His uneasy mind was still racing as his undressed. Absently, his hand went up to touch the cut Isith’s nails had left on his cheek. He would never admit it out loud but it had alarmed him more than he let on to see the woman in such a state. At times, mostly whenever she was near Farkas, he could sense her darkly sardonic exterior giving way to some happy, free-spirited thing underneath. He could almost catch glimpses of it in her eyes, some hidden wish to break free of whatever was driving her in her past. 

_Regardless of whatever else might be lurking around in there,_ Vilkas pondered grimly as he stretched out on the bed, _should she give me reason to, I will gut her where she stands._

………………………………………….. 

The next days passed by slowly and without incident. Isith worked odd jobs for the Companions and most of her duties were tantamount to rescuing kittens from trees or helping old Fralia Gray-mane to her stall in the market. 

She had pushed the dream from her mind and was only reminded of it whenever one of her fellows would shy away. For the first few days, she was forced to ignore curious glances in her direction during meal times. Ria had even gone so far as to begin sleeping in the cot near Athis, instead of remaining in the one that lay directly across from Isith’s. Other than this, she considered everything to be just fine. 

One sunny day, however, she had the misfortune of bumping into to the shorter half of the Brothers Grimm. 

“Vilkas!” she jumped in surprise as she met him rounding a corner. 

“New blood.” His eyes, so much colder than his brothers, narrowed at the sight of her. 

_Oh, if only looks could kill he would be a very happy man._

She could not help but notice the three-lined scrape that was healing over his cheekbone. For several days, the wound had looked as if it would scar. With the right amount of that greasy black war paint, she supposed he would be able to hide it effectively. 

“How’s the face?” 

“What?” 

“The battle scar I left you with,” She reached out to touch the mark but he flinched away. So, instead, she flicked him roughly across the sore spot. Vilkas swatted her hand away and reached up defensively to massage the offended area. 

“It’s fine,” he snapped. 

“Alright, if you say so. I am sorry about it though.” 

“There is no need to worry that pretty little head of yours over something so trivial. It would likely be too much for you.” 

Isith looked slightly taken aback. “Vilkas,” she said as she came to terms with what just happened, “Is that humor I hear in there?” 

_Andddd…cue! There’s the glower._

“Trust me, whelp, that’s all you’ll be getting from me today. You, however, have plenty to give.” 

He snatched her arm and marched off towards a secluded corner of the training grounds, leaving her little time to do anything other than flounder-mouth at him. He let go when they reached a spot far enough away to allow for privacy. 

“Tell me, girl, where are you from?” His pale eyes looked almost silver in the sunlight as they stared accusingly down at her. 

_Where am I from? Is he interrogating me? Bastard._ Isith crossed her arms stubbornly. 

“Valenwood. Can’t you tell?” _I’m just as good at this game as you, wolf._

Something akin to a snarl escaped Vilkas’ lips and he stepped into her, driving her back a few paces. 

“Answer me, new blood.” 

Feeling both crowded and uncomfortable, Isith shoved him away, though he didn’t budge too far. 

“Back away, you fool! I’m from Cyrodiil. I was raised just outside of a city named Anvil on the coast.” 

Vilkas looked momentarily appeased. She suspected he had not really expected her to give him any answer at all. From across the yard, she noticed Farkas looking over at them. Part of her wished he would intervene. It surprised her when she realized he obviously wasn’t planning on it. Even from a distance, the Nord looked pained, worried even, though he still made no move to stop his brother’s questioning. 

Vilkas continued with his next question. “Why did you come to Skyrim?” 

“That’s personal. You have no business asking these questions, Vilkas.” She would be damned if she answered another one. _Not like this. He couldn’t buy me a round of mead like a normal man?_

“I have all the business in the world asking you these things and you,” he stepped in so close that she felt his breath against her cheek, “You would do well to answer them.” 

_He will not threaten me again._ _Even prey, when backed into a corner,_ _fight back._

With all the strength she could muster, which was quite a lot, she lashed out at him. She smiled when her fist collided with his jaw. Vilkas stumbled back, cursing. 

Isith narrowed her eyes so that only the darkest bit of green was able to be seen through the slits. “Answer _my_ question, wolf. What have I done to offend you so? Do I not have the same right as you to keep secrets?” 

Vilkas only glared at her, his eyes murderous. 

Isith gave a heavy sigh, the fight suddenly gone from her. She had never been one to pursue an argument. Best to just say something funny and end the whole damn conversation. 

“I bet I know what your problem is,” she said, “Were you not hugged enough as a puppy? Oh, I know!” She leaned in close and patted his sore cheek sympathetically, “I bet you’re neutered.” 

With a roar, Vilkas was on her suddenly. Using his full weight, he tackled her to the ground, pinning her under him. With an audible _whoosh!_ all the breath left her chest. She cried out and batted away his fist just before it connected with her face. 

“What are you hiding!” he growled. It couldn’t have been meant as a question because his hands closed tightly around her throat as he began to squeeze. 

Before anymore damage was done, Isith felt his weight being hauled off as Farkas appeared behind them. Coughing, she scrambled away before Vilkas could lunge again. 

Even with his brother’s arms restraining him, Vilkas struggled. “ _Something_ is wrong about you!” he barked. Isith continued to back away, staggering past Skjor and Torvar, who stood nearby to catch the boy if he broke free. 

Isith retreated then, leaving the others to handle the rabid dog as they saw fit. _Why? Why does everyone want to kill me? Gods, the nerve!_

She brought her hands to her sore throat and rubbed, grimacing at the dirt that had collected there during the scuffle. _I need a bath._

“Tilma!” She shouted to the best of her ability and soon the old woman came scuffling out from a room nearby. 

The elderly maid looked Isith up and down, her kindly eyes widening when she noticed the bruise appearing along the younger woman’s throat. “What is it, dear?” 

“Would you draw some water, please? I’d like to bathe.” 

“Certainly.” 

A while later, Isith was happy to be relaxing in a steamy tub. She closed her eyes and slid down into the hot water, enjoying the heat as it pricked and reddened her skin. Thankfully, the steam from the water relaxed the muscles in her neck and she sighed when she noticed the soreness ebbing away slowly. 

There were few things in all of Tamriel she appreciated more than being clean, though, to her dismay she didn’t have nearly as much time to devote to personal hygiene as she would have liked. A hot bath could soothe so many ailments from frustrations to soreness. At this particular moment, she felt overcome with both. 

As her body relaxed, her mind began to worry over the recent events that her soured her time at Jorrvaskr. The Nightmother had tried to kill her in a dream, something Isith had no idea could happen, and then Vilkas had tried to kill her in the training yard. She wasn’t particular sure which option disturbed her more. 

If things didn’t straighten out soon, she feared her time with the Companions would be cut short. If she was viewed as more of a hindrance than an asset would Kodlak ask her to leave? _No, no…at least I hope not._

A mood of somberness overtook her and she flashed back several months earlier. Closing her eyes, she thought back to the events that led her to the Dark Brotherhood. 

……………………………. 

_Riften was a beautiful city in its own way. It was a place of thieves and scoundrels but amidst the backwater locals and crime dens lay a serene city. One surrounded by tall trees with leaves the color of a dusky afternoon. There always seemed to be a breeze in Riften, a warm breath of air to ease the otherwise chilly weather. The waterways that intertwined all through the town provided a symphony of aquatic sounds each time a boat pulled into the dock or a fish splashed near the surface. Even the waves had a melody of their own._

_The atmosphere, however, wasn’t the sole reason why Isith spent so much time in Riften. She had a Thieves Guild to run and she spent more time beneath the surface of the city than she would like. Brynjolf and Delvin helped when they could, handling most of the jobs while Isith ran the books._

_Counting numbers and pinching gold coins wasn’t exactly how she pictured her future. She thought about leaving to explore Skyrim on several occasions but the appeal was fleeting at best. She may be the Dragonborn but she had no desire to ramble around the countryside slaying beasts that could eat her in one gulp. She needed focus…a specific goal to keep her going. Living her life by chance in the wilderness would not give her that._

_However, even the Thieves Guild had a hard time keeping her attention. With Mercer Frey dead and the Guild restored, most of the jobs were so menial they went to members with less experience. There were no more bad guys to chase and defeat in the nick of time. Even her dear friend and mentor Karliah had made herself scarce recently, preferring to spend her time among Nocturnal’s shrine in the hills. Isith had already promised to serve the Daedric princess in death and did not want to spend any more time with her gloomy presence than necessary._

_It was this seed of boredom that drove her out from the Ratway one day. The weather was chillier than usual and the sky overcast. A few loaded drops of rain splattered down, foreshadowing a much heavier storm on the horizon._

_Isith ambled through the headstones outside the Temple of Mara and past the Shrine of Talos with no particular destination in mind. Soon enough, she came upon the Riften Orphanage. It was a dismal place, run-down and coated with a layer of crust from the hard water near the docks._

_Isith sighed, memories of her own past spent in an orphanage much like this one. It was an unhappy period in her life and she disliked reminiscing over it. Briefly, she wondered about the children abandoned there. For some reason she had always felt that the ones who had lost their parents, like she did, had it easier in some ways than the ones who were abandoned in neglect. Dealing with the loss of something you never knew you had seemed easier than knowing you simply weren’t wanted._

_Not that she wanted a child of her own, of course, but if she ever did have one she would fight for it unconditionally. Regardless, the thought made her sad simply because she could relate._

_Some unknown force beckoned her to enter the building. She saw no reason against it. It may even do her some good to confront such memories from her past. With little hesitation, she stepped forward and crossed into the yard. There was no happy laughter filtering out from the windows; it was as silent as a grave._

_Without knocking, Isith entered the building, peeking around for anyone who worked there. She saw no one. Low sounds of whispered voices drew her into the main room and she finally found the children. A young woman, perhaps a year or two younger than Isith, was spooning a steamy gruel onto their plates. Isith lingered by the doorway, mostly out of sight in case one of the children should see her and she then inadvertently raise their hopes._

_Instead, she watched them silently. A little girl at the far end of the table struck a place deep in her heart. The girl, her golden hair dirty and long and her green eyes bruised from malnutrition, looked much like Isith had in days long passed. Isith watched as she poked unhappily at the gruel before running two tiny, dirty fingers through it and scooping it into her mouth. Isith frowned. How many times had she done the same?_

_To her left, the sound of a clay pot shattering drew her attention. From the main room, several frightened pairs of eyes turned to look. The young woman muttered something under her breath and wrung her hands fretfully. The shouting started a moment later. As did the sounds of abuse._

_Isith scowled and slipped skillfully past the open portal of the room before anyone saw her. On the other side of the door there she could hear a woman shouting various insults and curses that were obviously directed at a child. A loud crack of a hand meeting a cheek caused Isith to reel back in disgust._

_She might not be here to adopt one of these children but she would be damned to Oblivion before she saw them abused. It was all she could manage not to burst through the door right then. Quietly, she placed her hand on the door and slid it aside just wide enough so that she could enter._

_As she suspected, an old hag of a woman had backed a little boy into a corner and was ripping into him verbally. The boy’s eyes, small and black, darted to Isith when he saw her enter the room. He looked from her to the woman, Grelod, and a small smile broke over his craggily teeth._

_This infuriated Grelod and she drew her hand back to strike the boy. Isith was there to catch it before she could hit the child again. Isith jerked the woman away from the child and placed herself maternally in front of him._

_“How dare you? Who are you?” Grelod spat angrily._

_“Do you beat all your children like this?” Isith could feel her rage welling up inside of her._

_She had never been beaten at her time in the orphanage but there had always been whispers, unspoken gossip of cruelties that occurred in other care houses._

_Grelod stalked over to stand in front of Isith and shoved a boney finger into her breastplate. “Get away from the little bastard!”_

_What happened next would baffle Isith for countless days to come. Fury over took her and she gripped the scow by the neck as she drove her backwards against the far wall. Unthinking, her hand went to her hip and unsheathed her dagger, which she drove through the woman’s neck. Blood seeped over her hands, coating her leather gloves with the hot, sticky liquid. The fog of rage lifted and she stared down at the lifeless body before her. She had killed, yes, many times but…she had NEVER murdered._

_Behind her, the young boy whooped. He ran over and threw his short arms around her hips. She was so numb she barely registered that he was there._

_“You did it!” he chirped, “You killed Grelod!”_

_By the gods, I killed Grelod…Isith was still processing the thought._

_“Aventus sent you, didn’t he?”_

_“W-what?”_

_“Aventus Aretino! He said he was going to call on the Dark Brotherhood to off Grelod! He actually did it!”_

_The scuffle and the rejoicing that followed had drawn attention from the main dining room. Isith heard the sounds of footsteps hurrying toward her. Panicking, she shoved the boy away and pushed open a nearby window._

_As she was crawling out, one of the boy’s tiny hands gripped her boot. Isith turned and stared back at the child._

_“Thank you! Oh, thank you!”_

_He was still smiling even as he let her go, leaving her to tumble out into the darkness alone._

_………………………………………………………………._

The soothing feeling of fingers running through her hair brought Isith back to the present. The water had grown tepid and her skin was beginning to wrinkle. Careful to cover herself, she shifted around and was met with Farkas’ silvery-blue eyes looking down at her. 

“You were napping.” He said quietly. 

“Was I?” 

He nodded and continued twisting the short blonde strands through his fingers. “Did Vilkas hurt you?” he asked. 

“Only my pride.” She tried to hide the smirk before it appeared on her face. _Odd how I’m not uncomfortable with him here, being nude and all…_ In fact, she found herself rather at ease. Farkas gave no indication of any ulterior motives. He was seated on the floor behind her with one leg extended past the tub and the other drawn into his chest. His eyes stayed focused on her face and never once drifted down any lower. 

With a sigh, Isith leaned back into his hand so that he could continue dancing his fingers through her hair. It was a surprisingly gentle motion for such a large man. 

“Why did he attack you like that?” 

“Hmm, he didn’t tell you himself?” 

“He did. I just want to hear it from you.” 

Raising a wrinkled hand out of the water, Isith brought it up and pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh. “I think…well, your brother doesn’t trust me, Farkas.” 

“Vilkas is a smart man. He would need a reason.” 

_A reason? A reason!_ Isith snatched herself away from Farkas’ reach, sloshing water over the edge of the tub as she did so. Farkas grumbled when a bit of it splashed onto his pants. 

“Is waking up screaming in terror during the night reason enough to hate someone, Farkas? Is, is being beaten by some newcomer grounds for betrayal?” Isith snapped. “I don’t think it is! I have done nothing to deserve your brother’s wrath. He’s a fool, plain and simple.” 

Farkas bristled and drew his hand back as if he had touched something hot. His normally kind eyes grew uncharacteristically icy. 

“Don’t talk about Vilkas like that.” This time the low timbre of his voice was menacing. 

“He attacked me, Farkas! Unprovoked! Well, mostly unprovoked.” She may have emasculated him just a little. 

Farkas stood up suddenly, anger flashing over his face. 

“You don’t know him! Why didn’t you just answer his questions? He never would have done it otherwise. My brother’s a good man.” 

“Questions?” Isith recoiled. “You knew he was going to do that and you didn’t stop him? Worse yet, you couldn’t ask me yourself?” 

She silenced him before he could answer. Despite the cold of the water, her body was hot with rage. 

“Damn you, Farkas,” she spat, “Get out! Just get out.” 

The Nord’s features instantly softened and he resembled a scolded child. He looked anything but angry now. Hurt. Confused. Disappointed. He took one last look at Isith as if he had something else to say before sighing and stalking out of the room. 

Isith watched him go, her temper turning to a painful mixture hurt and shame. Knowing how close the twins were, she should never have said such things. She bit her lip and let her head smack back against the edge of the tub. _Fool! Isith, you silly little fool…_

The water suddenly felt a lot colder now. 

…………………………………………………………………………….. 

The next day when she sought Farkas out she discovered he was gone. 

“He and Torvar left for Markarth. Something about bandits.” Skjor explained over lunch. 

The news only made Isith want to thrash herself even more. Part of her wondered why she even cared so much. She and Farkas were friends, yes. They had shared a…moment, sure. But that didn’t give her any right to pine after the man. Farkas was nice to be around, of course. He was someone solid that she could count on to have her back in this den of wolves. 

He would come back and she would apologize to him. Damn it, she would even apologize to Vilkas if she had to. _Maybe. Just for the sake of…friendship._

She finished out the rest of her lunch in relative silence. Every now and again, Skjor would give her the strangest look as if he were thinking “I know something you don’t.” Isith felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up every time he glanced her way. 

She excused herself the first chance she got and made her way to the training yard with her bow. The pull of the string between her fingers and the whip of the arrow as it shot out both distracted and soothed her. She made countless shots, firing arrows until the muscles in her arms burned. 

She trained for hours until the sun began to set on the horizon. Just as she turned to head back inside, Ria came bounding out of the door. 

“Isith!” She waved her arms as if flagging down a ship at sea. 

Isith approached the other woman to ask what the matter was. 

“You’ve got a visitor.” 

Isith’s breath caught at the word. _It couldn’t be. No, they wouldn’t come here._ If the Brotherhood wanted her back, they would find a much bloodier way to do it than marching in the front door. 

“He’s a good looking one, too.” 

_Ah ha! So not one of Brotherhood._ “Who is it, Ria?” she asked. 

Ria slapped her on the shoulder and winked. “Go in and see for yourself. Maybe you could introduce me while you’re at it.” 

Isith found her way back into Jorrvaskr. She made sure to place her bow down by the door so that she could grab it if needed. A few Companions were seated around the dinner table, glancing curiously towards the entrance. 

Across the room, Isith spied Kodlak deep in conversation with the visitor. Curious, she walked over and greeted Kodlak along with the hooded man at his side. 

“I hear you’re looking for me.” She said, trying to sneak a look up through the shadows of the hood. 

“Indeed, someone’s here to see you, girl.” Kodlak turned once more to the man and bid him good day. 

“So, are you going to take that hood off or do I have three guesses?” 

The man raised his hand and peeled back the hood. Locks of thick auburn hair tumbled out from their confines. 

“Hello there, Guildmaster.” 

Isith squealed. “Brynjolf!” 

The thief hardly had time to catch her before she leapt into his arms. He laughed and swung her around once before placing her back down. 

“How have you been, lass?” 

Isith opened her mouth to answer but Brynjolf pressed one finger over her lips. 

“Wait, don’t answer that just yet.” 

With that, he leaned down and captured her mouth with his. 


	5. Chapter 5

The room was stifling. Whether it was from the inn itself or Brynjolf’s body heat, Isith couldn’t be sure. She rolled onto her back, not bothering to hide her naked breasts, and found Brynjolf watching her intently. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Bryn.” She mumbled. Rolling over had definitely been a bad idea. _This is why I don’t do pillow talk._

Brynjolf’s expression didn’t change. “So, who is he?” The man’s brogue was soft with drowsiness. 

“Who?” 

“The man whose name you started screaming half an hour into our fun.” 

Isith felt her cheeks heat as she blushed. “Err, yes…sorry about that.” 

Brynjolf chuckled and pulled her into his chest, pressing her cheek into the soft smattering of auburn hair. “No worries, lass. No strings, remember?” 

Isith sighed. “No strings.” 

“So…this Farkas fellow, are you serious about him?” Absent-mindedly, his fingers started to trail down her sides and back up again, drawing invisible patterns as they went. 

The woman in his arms scoffed. “Me? Serious about a man? Don’t be daft.” 

He gave her side a pinch. “Come on, lass. I’m curious.” 

Isith groaned and rolled her face farther into his chest in an effort to disappear. When she realized it was useless, she peeked up again and with a crooked smile said, “Maybe a little.” 

A deep laugh erupted from his chest and he tugged her over on top of him. Isith straddled him, no more aware of the intimacy because it seemed so natural with him. If she had a best friend, it was Brynjolf. 

“Is he a good man?” Brynjolf’s voice was still playful but his eyes told her he was quite serious. He was pleased to see the sincerity with which she nodded. 

She smiled when he reached up to caress her cheek and instinctively nuzzled into it. She always forgot how soft his hands really were. They were not at all callused like Farkas’ although, admittedly, during their frolic she found herself wishing that they were. His thumb and forefinger latched gently onto her chin and he pulled her down and placed an achingly sweet kiss on her lips. 

“Then I’m happy for you.” 

Isith grinned and rolled off, sliding off the bed to stretch. More than once she caught Brynjolf admiring her from the beneath the covers. She may not have the long, lean legs of most Nord women, but her hour-glass shape and toned athletic body were more than enough to make up for it. Feeling sufficiently reenergized, she tip-toed around the room to collect her clothes as she found them. Whenever she came across something of Brynjolf’s she tossed it to him. 

He hesitated to put them on. What could she say? The man liked to be naked. 

When they were dressed they left his room at the Bannered Mare and moseyed casually back to Jorrvaskr. 

As they reached the steps leading up to the entrance, Isith paused. Almost shyly, she cleared her throat before she asked, “What are you really doing here, Bryn? You wouldn’t leave Riften for a simple visit.” 

Brynjolf sighed, his features almost instantaneously becoming clouded with disquiet. “Listen, lass,” he looked around before continuing, “There have been visitors to the Flaggon.” 

“I’m guessing these aren’t the kind of visitors that walk, talk, and sound like thieves.” 

Brynjolf shook his head. “No, they aren’t. It’s the Dark Brotherhood, lass. They’re looking for you.” 

Isith sucked in a breath, cursing. A small group of guards appeared from the eastern stairs and began heading towards the two Nords, likely on their way to their posting in the market. Side stepping them, Brynjolf pulled Isith aside and nudged her further up the stairs. 

“Delvin came to me several days ago saying that one of their assassins came to the Flagon to ask him about you.” 

Isith nodded, mulling over different scenarios in her mind. “Yes, that would make sense. Delvin occasionally helped me out during my missions. He’d get me names, dates, places, the usual. The Brotherhood may still be using him.” 

“Well apparently they know about your association with the Thieves Guild. According to Delvin, the assassin seemed to think you may have been staying with us.” 

When they reached the doors of Jorrvaskr, Isith hesitated, running her hands through her cropped hair. Part of her wanted to turn away and run as quickly as possible for the borders of Skyrim. 

_Oh, no, Isith. These people have nothing on you…_ She tried to think her way through it, calming herself. 

Beside her, Brynjolf was still speaking. “That’s not all, lass. We’ve had reports from fences in Markarth and Solitude that the Brotherhood was shaking down some of your old associates.” 

“And?” 

“ _And_ to the best of our knowledge they’ve come up empty handed. I wouldn’t give them long, however, ‘til they start knocking on your door here in Whiterun.” 

With a flurry of curses, Isith lashed out and slammed her fist against the giant oak door. She could feel a dull ache starting to throb between her temples. Brynjolf noticed and reached out to take the hand that had hit the door. Gingerly, he picked a splinter from one of her knuckles before bringing it to his lips with a gentle kiss. 

“Isith,” he said quietly, “It’s already been taken care of for the time being. You can breathe.” 

Worried green eyes turned to look up at him. “What? How?” 

“I’ve paid some people to drop your name in few different places. Right now, the Listener for the Dark Brotherhood is staying at an inn near Rorikstead. Or maybe she’s heading for the Hammerfell border, I have a hard time remembering.” He grinned at her and winked. 

Isith let go a sigh of relief. She reached up and patted his cheek, letting her hand linger for a moment. “Thank you, Brynjolf.” 

He shrugged. “Oh, I’ll hold it over your head for a while, lass. Women do dirty things when they’re being blackmailed.” 

For the first time since they left the Bannered Mare, Isith managed to laugh. 

…………………………………………………….. 

Before parting ways, Isith made Brynjolf promise that he would remain in Whiterun for at least a few more days. He assured her that he had no intentions of leaving her unguarded until he received further word from the Guild. After saying their goodbyes for the afternoon, Isith returned to the barracks. Sighing quietly, she plopped down on her cot and stretched out. She had just begun to doze off when she heard someone grunt from the doorway. 

Opening one eye, she saw Athis standing there, arms crossed. 

“Stop leering Athis.” She chided teasingly. 

The elf, who was rather humorless until he started drinking, ignored her. “Kodlak is looking for you.” 

Isith moaned and sat up. _And here I thought I’d get a little calm before the storm_. She thanked Athis and slipped past him and jogged down to the end of the hallway, straightening her clothes as she went. 

She knocked once before she entered. Kodlak greeted her with his usual smile. Isith started to smile back just as she noticed the scowling figure who was seated across from him. Instantly, the corners of her mouth tilted down and her eyebrows pinched together. 

Needless to say, Vilkas gave it as good as he got. 

The old man appeared to sense the tension and asked politely for Isith to join them at the table. Isith obliged, but not before scooting the chair as far as possible from Vilkas. Kodlak sighed and shook his head. 

“The two of you need to make your peace.” His voice was soft but firm. 

“Vilkas needs to stop trying to kill me.” It was a petulant remark but Isith did not care. 

Vilkas managed to get out almost two full syllables of a rebuttal before Kodlak silenced him. “We can’t allow fighting amongst our ranks. Especially not between two of our best Companions.” Kodlak emphasized the last word, looking hard into Isith’s eyes. It struck her as odd and if she hadn’t missed it, she was certain Vilkas would catch it too. 

The two younger Nords remained silent, refusing to look at one another, and looking very much like school children being scolded. 

“I’m sending both of you to a cave just south of Ivarstead. A group of bandits has holed up in the place and we’ve received several pleas for aid from the townsfolk.” 

From across the table, Vilkas stopped seething long enough to ask a question. 

“I don’t mean to question your judgment, Kodlak, but are you sure it is wise to send only the two of us? Bandits can be unpredictable.” 

The Harbinger shook his head. “Consider it a trust-building exercise.” 

_Lovely, so I’ll have to watch both my front and my back._ Plenty of witty retorts sprung to mind but Isith held them back. 

Instead, she asked when they should depart. Kodlak assured her that leaving the next morning would be best. 

Isith wanted to protest. Really, she wanted to lie down on the floor and throw a hissy until the old man changed his mind. However, she doubted that would accomplish anything more than her own humiliation so she remained silent. 

When they were dismissed, the two departed without a word to each other. Vilkas headed back to his quarters while Isith delivered word of her new change in plans to Brynjolf. The thief was not happy about it but, given there was little he could do, he agreed. 

“Stay and keep an eye out here until I get back.” She told him. He said that he would. 

……………………………………………………. 

The next morning came much soon. Isith had gone to bed cranky and she woke up crankier. She was up and out of bed before the sun rose fully in the sky and met Vilkas near the gates of the city. He greeted her with austere silence and they walked down to the stables without so much as a word. The morning was unusually cold and both drew their cloaks around them tightly. Mornings like these made Isith thankful for being a Nord. 

“Do you even have a horse, Vilkas?” she asked as they reached the barn. 

He scowled and said that he had borrowed one. 

The smell hit them first, as it always did. It was not entirely unpleasant, especially in the crisp air of the morning. The sights and smells of farms had always appealed to Isith. Perhaps it was the quiet solitude that seemed so characteristic of it all or maybe it was just the thought of having such a simple life, either way, she knew she liked it. However, one glance at the walking, breathing plague beside her and she was drawn out of her reverie. 

Sure enough, as Vilkas had said, a large dapple grey was being saddled just as they walked up. The stablemaster greeted them cheerfully. Despite the nip of the morning air, he only wore a light linen shirt. Isith envied him; he was obviously much more acclimatized to the chilly weather. Sometimes she wondered if her Nord blood hadn’t been tempered by the warm Cyrodiil summers in her childhood. The realization that this would be her first winter in Skyrim flitted briefly through her mind. 

The stablemaster motioned at her and asked, “Which one is yours?” 

“The scary one.” She replied. 

The man’s face looked panicked for a moment and he continued to stare at her, his eyes blinking in surprise. Isith snickered and patted the man on his beefy shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll get him. You just make sure my friend here knows which foot goes in the stirrup first.” 

Vilkas shot her dark look as she walked away. She disappeared for a few moments before returning with her enormous black steed trailing behind her. Following obediently behind his master, Shadowmere whickered excitedly at the prospect of being away from the stables. 

Vilkas gave the horse a passing glance before turning back to load his bags onto his own gelding. He started suddenly and snapped his head around again to study the horse more closely. 

His voice was high-pitched from shock when he spoke. “What in Oblivion is _that_?” 

Isith stroked the horse’s velvety nose and gave him a devious grin. “Aw, Vilkas, you look distressed.” 

As if taunting the male Nord, Shadowmere pawed the ground, snorting and tossing his head. Isith petted him once more. 

“See, he’s a horse just like any other.” 

“You’re doing yourself no favors by owning a steed such as that. Tell me, what sort of dark magic does it take to make his eyes glow red?” 

Isith didn’t reply. _You’re closer to the truth than you know, wolf._ She turned her back to him and tinkered with her saddle until Vilkas was mounted and ready to go. 

They set off just as the sun was beginning to rise in the Eastern sky, filling the horizon with an array of hues from creamy orange to soft pink. _This may even be an enjoyable ride if the company wasn’t so damned unpleasant._

They had been riding for a few miles when Isith’s tongue finally got the better of her. 

“So, tell me, wolf. How’s your face?” 

“Do you really want to go there again, girl?” 

“Mmm, yes actually. That way, if you decide to unleash the beast again, Shadowmere can trample you into the ground and I’ll have the pleasure of telling Kodlak the good news.” 

“Do you enjoy this ceaseless banter? Does it please you to know you’re wittier than your opponent?” 

“Aha!” Isith exclaimed, “So you admit you’re my enemy!” 

“Yes, I lay awake at night dreaming of ways to kill you.” 

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Honesty is the first step to trust, you know.” 

“It was sarcasm, new blood.” 

Isith shrugged her shoulders cheerfully. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

They continued on for the majority of the day in relative silence. When her efforts at witty banter and clever derisions proved futile, Isith found herself longing for Farkas’ company instead. He was easy to make laugh and didn’t mind Isith’s propensity for good-natured teasing. In the silence, she let her mind wonder, remembering fondly the sound of his belly-rumbling laughter. The thought made her smile to herself. 

_I wonder what he’s doing right now. Sleeping, I bet. I hope he’s warm. Does he snore? Hmm, I hope not, although, he probably does. How could a man like that not snore?_ Would it be soft and quiet or loud and rumbling like his voice? Isith promised herself that she would find out one day. 

Vilkas, who was trailing along behind her just slightly, caught a glimpse of her dreamy-eyed grin. 

“Thinking of my brother, are you?” 

Isith snapped her head around and glared at him. Vilkas returned it tit-for-tat. 

“I was just going to say,” his voice was too gentle for him to be up to anything good, “That I hope you were planning out how you’re going to break the news to him that you’re sleeping with other men.” 

Isith jerked Shadowmere to a halt and spun him around so that she was facing Vilkas. She gaped at him. 

Vilkas brought his gelding even with the larger black horse and pulled back on the reins to stop him. 

“You forget that werewolves have a very acute sense of smell and…intercourse has a _very_ distinct scent.” 

For once, Isith had no response. 

Vilkas went on, “I have to admit, I’ve labeled you as many things, whelp, but a whore was never one of them.” 

Isith’s cheeks began to flush and she looked away, trying to block the wave of shame that was suddenly crashed down upon her. Her flings with Brynjolf had never been serious. _Ever_. Thus, she had thought little of it when she followed him back to his room. To her, they were just two old friends saying hello. But now…now, she felt, well, she didn’t know what to feel. There had been no promises between her and Farkas to break. Did she owe him something regardless? 

From his perch, Vilkas smirked. “I see I’ve rendered you speechless.” 

Isith turned to glare hatefully at him. “I don’t see how this is any of your business, churl.” She spat, her voice icy. Vilkas’ hearing was sharp enough that he caught the wavering notes of shame laced within it. 

He snapped at her, “My brother cares, pardon me, _cared_ for you. Anything you do that may hurt him is my business.” 

“Farkas and I have never promised anything to each other! He has never so much as laid a hand on me, nor I him! What rule have I broken?” 

“Farkas is a simple man, a man who knows his feelings from the first moment he meets someone. Had you given him time he would have come to you about them, whore!” 

Isith wanted to tackle him right off his horse. Her hands were shaking and she gripped the reins more tightly than was comfortable for Shadowmere. 

“Are you telling me that Farkas has never flirted with a woman before? Never had the desire to bed one?” 

Vilkas looked at her incredulously. “What? Of course he has!” 

“Has it not occurred to you that perhaps that is what he wanted from me? And I from him? Nothing more than someone to warm the bed at night?” _That’s not true but if it shuts him up, let him believe it._

“You’re wrong! Farkas has taken to you more quickly than anyone in the past. He sees something in you, whelp, Ysgramor help him.” 

With a final venomous glare, Isith snatched the reins around, spinning Shadowmere in an about-face. She kicked her heels into the meaty sides of the horse and spurred him forward. He broke off into a canter, leaving Vilkas behind in the dust. 

……………………………………………………………… 

They reached Ivarstead just before nightfall. The ride had been hard, even on Shadowmere, as Isith kept them at a breakneck pace the entire way. By the time they stopped, Vilkas was groaning from the pain between his legs. It took him several extra minutes to stretch and walk it off. 

They tied off the horses near an outcropping of dense trees several hundred yards from the cave entrance. 

“Let me go first.” Isith whispered. Vilkas replied with a curt nod when he saw her reach for her bow. He would agree to follow. For now. 

A single bandit dozed by the mouth of the cave. He had hunkered down against the outer wall, a wine bottle tipped on its side near his leg. Vilkas lagged behind and watched as Isith crept on ahead. To his amazement, she was able to creep right up next to the sleeping man. Silently, she unsheathed her dagger and, placing her hand across his mouth to muffle his cries, raked the blade over the skin of his throat. It got the job done but Vilkas did not approve. _Coward, a man should have a chance to raise his blade._

As they progressed inside,they encountered two more bandits, which Isith quietly dispatched before Vilkas could charge forward. __

Every time his steel armor would squeak, she would cut her eyes at him as if she were mentally trying to force him to be more silent. It may have been childish but it pleased him to know that he could irk her even in the silence. 

They were a decent ways in when the first fight broke out. As they stepped into a cavern, the glimmer of torch light reflected off of Vilkas’ armor and alerted a group of five bandits to their presence. Isith abandoned her bow for the time being and drew her dual swords. Vilkas paid her little attention, save what was required to keep himself away from her arching swings. 

He had little trouble cutting through the lightly armored rogues; his greatsword cleaved efficiently through flesh and bone. The skirmish was over almost as soon as it began. Wiping the blood from his face, Vilkas glanced over to see if Isith was unarmed. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he saw that she was fine. 

“No more sneaking. From here on out, we fight.” 

She did not argue with him and fell in step behind him. Several more bandits fell to the Companions’ blades as they cut their way through the cave’s winding passage ways. Slicing through bone was hard work, however, and they were beginning to tire. 

“We could always come back tomorrow.” Isith mumbled after another set of the scoundrels fell. 

Vilkas ignored her and sat back against a rock to catch his breath. Isith would not sit still, preferring to pace in circles as she waited for him. He noticed with veiled interest how her eyes danced around the cavern from corner to corner. They seemed to search every crevice and shadow for the slightest sign of danger. 

“You should rest for a moment.” Vilkas told her. “I don’t need you so fatigued that you can’t watch my back properly.” 

It was as if a sudden outrage gripped her, Isith rushed at him then, dagger drawn and her face twisted up in a snarl. _By Ysgramor, what did I say this time?_

Weighed down by his armor he could not move in time to evade her. He gritted his teeth and raised his arm to shield himself. To his relief, the blade never fell. Isith stuck her arm out just as she reached him and jerked him by the hair to the ground beside her. With her other arm, she launched the dagger through the air. With a heavy _thump_ the knife embedded itself into the chest of a bandit who had appeared on a ledge out of Vilkas’ sight. 

Groaning, Vilkas rolled over on the ground and was met with the sight of Isith’s outstretched hand. His heart still pounding, he gripped it and she hoisted him up off the ground. 

“Well, are you rested yet?” 

Vilkas could only look at her. Rather bleakly, he realized that he would have to make sure he saved her life somewhere down the road so that she could not hold this over his head. 

For a while, their path led them on a downward slope that eventually opened up to a watery grotto. Vilkas cursed under his breath. 

“What is it?” Isith asked, her voice low. 

“Nothing, let’s keep moving.” 

She didn’t budge. 

“Damn you woman! If you must know, I...err, am not fond of…damp places.” 

Isith stared at him. 

“You’re afraid of water?” she asked. “Ha!” she whipped her hand up to her mouth to muffle her snickering. 

Muttering a string of expletives, Vilkas pushed his way past her and waded knee deep into the pool.   
He was hesitant to go any further. 

He craned his neck to look around, his eyes searching for any sort of outcropping or ledge. “I don’t see any way out of this room. Perhaps we have come too far this way.” 

Isith joined him. “It could be under the surface of the water. Go ahead, my fearless leader, swim down and take a look.” 

Vilkas opened his mouth to snap at her when the water around them suddenly began bubbling. Vilkas staggered back, clambering his way back to the safety of solid ground. 

Isith retreated until she was ankle deep, her watchful eyes scanning the surface of the water. With a huge splash, four figures erupted from beneath surface. 

Vilkas was the first to realize what was happening. 

“It’s a trap! Damned Argonians!” He readied his sword just as the first of the reptilian bandits fell on Isith. 

She cried out as one of her blades was knocked from her hand. Vilkas surged forward, sweeping at the two lizards that were quickly closing in on him. A satisfied smirk spread over his lips when he felt the edge of his blade graze the chest of one attacker. A fourth Argonian crept along the Nord’s blind spot and leapt in behind him, seizing his arms as the other two pried his sword from his grip. 

He roared and struggled to break free, his eyes sweeping over Isith as she fought bare-handed against her own attacker, her weapons lost during the fray. He shouted to her in warning as another of the reptiles snatched one of her arms. Another cry of fury bellowed from him as he saw the Argonian back-fist his fellow Companion. She collapsed to the ground, unmoving. 

Vilkas only had a few seconds more of consciousness before a similar blow rendered him senseless. 


	6. Chapter 6

When Vilkas awoke, head throbbing and mouth dry, he discovered rather dismally that his hands and feet had been bound. He smacked his lips and tried to rid himself of the tangy metallic taste that pervaded them. 

The warmth at his back alerted him to his comrade’s presence. With a pained groan, Vilkas rolled over to look at Isith. Blood had dried along her temple and her formerly angelic lips were split from top to bottom in one corner. She remained motionless even as Vilkas nudged her with his knees. 

Uncertainty gripped him and he realized that he couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. No, surely the wicked bitch would be much harder to kill than that. Yet, another part of him, even deeper, was afraid for another reason he refused to acknowledge. 

Almost frantically, he jerked his knees against her again to no avail. 

He froze when he heard a hiss from the other side of the room. One of his Argonian captors shouted for him to stop squirming. Reluctantly, Vilkas obliged. 

Long minutes ticked past as Vilkas ran through his options. His weapons were missing and he had been stripped of any potentially sharp-edged armor. Even if he managed to inch his way over to one of the sharp edges of the rockface, he doubted he could saw through his bindings while under the watchful eyes of the Argonians. 

That left him with only one option. He shuddered to even consider it. He had made a promise to Kodlak that he would not give into the beastblood until a cure was found. Even as the idea formed in his mind, the wolf within was clawing for release. There was also the possiblity, given it had been a long time since he had last shifted, that he may not be able to restrain the beast within him from total carnage. 

He glanced over at the unconscious girl beside him. If the beast saw her…well, he would just have to feel bad about it later. 

Crawling to his knees, Vilkas did his best to ignore the aching of his bones, which would certainly get worse as the change began. 

He closed his eyes and did his best to shut out all the noise around him. The change was subtle at first, beginning as a warm heat in the middle of his body and rippling outward, slowly intensifying as it spread. Once the heat overcame him, the reorganizing of his anatomy began. Bones shifted and popped, growing ever larger until the shape was no longer human. From there, hair and claw growth was almost instantaneous. The final phase would be his eyes. His vision would blur to the point of momentary blindness before a world of bursting color appeared out of the darkness. 

All of these steps took him only a few seconds to phase through. The hardest part was retaining his own mind while the beast rose from within. 

When he began the change, the Argonians hardly noticed. It was only when one of them happened to glance up, too late, of course, that any one realized what was happening. The wolf within him howled when he felt the heavy bindings snap like twine. 

The Argonians never even bothered to pick up their weapons. They all turned to flee at the sight of the beast before them. Vilkas was on one and then another, mauling them beyond recognition. A third Argonian froze in fear when Vilkas rounded on him, snarling, his muzzle damp with blood. Vilkas reached out with his clawed hand and gripped the reptile around the throat. With a blood-chilling roar, he flung the Argonian into the far wall. The lizard-man was dead when he hit the ground. 

That was three down, one to go. Vilkas searched the empty cavern and was enraged to find the fourth Argonian had escaped. He was ready to set off after him when the sound of movement to his flank caught his attention. The beast whirled, his yellow-gold eyes falling on the writhing body of the second Companion. 

Isith shook off her stupor and shimmied herself up enough to look around. When her green eyes found the wolf, there was an audible in-take of breath. 

Vilkas could smell the fear on her as she stared at him, wild-eyed. The wolf within him fought to take control. The animal wanted her. She was juicy and tender, like a wild fawn, ripe for the taking. The instinct of the beast breached his own mind, his human mind, and thoughts of a different sort filled his head, images of her, weak and powerless against him as he took her violently against the wall of the cave. 

Another growl, this one lower and more menacing, escaped him and he advanced forward. Isith pressed body further into the wall, her eyes darting around wildly for a way to cut her bindings and flee. She was like a wide-eyed doe cornered at the edge of cliff face. 

Some part of Vilkas fought back against the imagery, refusing it. However, the beast was stronger. The werewolf stalked toward its prey slowly, taunting and teasing. A scream ripped from the young warrior’s body, unable to be contained any longer. 

The sound sent the beast over the edge. One clawed hand gripped her shoulder and dragged her, kicking and screaming, away from the wall. Using its claws to slice away the ropes that bound her, the wolf crouched low over her, panting and growling. 

Her hands unbound, Isith struck out, striking the beast across its snout. It was a grazing blow that hardly phased the creature. The Nord woman fished her hand out for the first thing she could find. Her fingers curled around a jagged rock and she swung it, embedding deep within the shoulder of the creature. Blood sprayed out, coating her face and flying into her mouth. It was a hot, bitter taste, tainted with something foul. Choking and gagging, Isith continued her fight. 

The werewolf snarled and ripped the rock from its muscle, pinning her down with its free hand. The urge was too strong now. Blood had been spilled, its metallic scent of mixing with that of the woman’s fear. The wolf shuddered and phased back in to the human man it had once been. For a moment, Isith relaxed, relief washing over her like a welcomed flood. 

It was only when she looked up in Vilkas’ eyes that her fear returned. The normally silver-blue irises were still the same primal yellow that belonged to the wolf. 

Another terrified scream tore through her, and she fought once more. A bloodied hand struck across her cheek and held her down. Isith thrashed about beneath her former comrade but found him inhumanly strong. One hand went down to the laces of her leather pants and tore at them. 

Her screams turned to sobs as her strength began to wane. Every fiber of her being begged her to keep fighting but her arms would no longer respond. 

One last attempt led her to grip Vilkas’ face in her hands, forcing her own eyes to stare back at the cursed ones. 

“Vilkas!” her voice was solid, valiant in what could be her final stand. “Vilkas, you son-of-a-bitch, come back to me.” 

Something changed in him then; he froze, rigid as a statue, and peered down at her, his eyes wide with recognition, yet, unseeing. 

“Vilkas,” Isith’s voice was softer this time though her eyes remained locked on his. 

His lips moved, as if uttering her name, but no words came out. 

Gradually, as if he was unsure of whom she was or what was happening, he sat back, allowing Isith enough room to sit up. Vilkas watched her as she did so and noticed fresh bruises appearing against her skin. 

“Oh, Talos, what have I done.” His voice was barely audible as he looked at her. 

Isith placed one of her hands against his cheek, doing her best to hide from him her violent shaking. “It’s alright now, Vilkas. You didn’t hurt me, you came back in time.” 

Vilkas shook his head in denial, a cry of anguish echoing from his gut. Isith pulled him into a maternal embrace, cooing at him and stroking his hair as he began to sob. 

“Hush, now, Vilkas. We cannot linger.” 

She released him after a few moments and stood on weak legs to look around the room. She spotted the Argonian that had been flung against the wall and stripped him of his leather armor. 

“Put this on. Quickly.” She brought the pieces over to Vilkas and helped him into them. The fit was crude but it was enough to cover him for the time being. 

Grabbing their stolen gear from a pile in the corner, they hurried out of the cavern. Isith tried multiple times to coax some sort of conversation out of her companion but it was useless. He would cast his eyes away each time she looked at him. For nearly an hour they picked their way through the maze of tunnels until they finally found the mouth of the cave. 

Fresh air greeted them as they stumbled out into the early morning light, weary and ragged. Stopping for a moment to breathe in the air with grateful longs, they were too distracted to notice the circle of enemies melting out of the trees around them. Isith noticed them first and cursed under her breath. 

The remaining Argonian bandit stepped forward, flanked by two hulking Nords. One of the men was missing an eye and a dirty black hole was in its place. Both the Companions made note of this, hoping the wound would leave him blind to attacks from that side. 

Four more bandits took their places behind Isith and Vilkas. These men were scrawny and would normally be little trouble if the two Companions had been at their full strength. 

A few yards away, the Argonian drew his sword. He pointed the weapon at them and hissed, “That beast killed my brothers.” 

Vilkas flinched at the term, more ashamed of having lost control than killing a few highwaymen. 

Isith glanced at Vilkas and saw that the Nord was barely able to hold his sword up, his energy drained from the stress of his transformation. She didn’t feel much better herself. 

It was a hard thing to realize that defeat would likely be the outcome of the fight before them. 

“If you fight us, you’ll likely win, I won’t deny it. But you _will_ lose the remainder of your men in the process. Let us go.” Isith’s voice was hard. Her eyes clashed fearlessly with the slitted irises of the Argonian. 

Beside her, Vilkas suddenly couldn’t help but admire her. Perhaps he had indeed misjudged her. Even in the face of defeat she stood stalwart and unrelenting. 

Despite the intensity of her words, it was not surprise when the Argonian declined. 

“Kill them.” 

All at once the attackers rushed in. Vilkas side-stepped one of the smaller men and grabbed him from behind. His arm wrapped around the rogue’s neck and snapped it in one fluid movement. He turned just in time to avoid a downward swipe from another of the bandits and sliced his own weapon across the man’s exposed belly. That was two down. A few feet away he heard a battle cry from one of the larger Nords. It was silenced prematurely as Isith’s blade lodged in the man’s throat. Three down. 

An Imperial scrapper charged at Vilkas and grazed his bicep before Vilkas managed to grapple him and flip him over his shoulder. The man landed with a thud and Vilkas drove his sword through the bandit’s stomach. Four. A fifth man fell as Isith rained down a flurry of attacks. That left two. 

“The Argonian’s mine!” Vilkas snarled. Isith was happy to agree. 

She charged the one-eyed Nord, sliding low as he swung his at her shoulders. Combining her momentum with the force of her body weight, she hit him low across the hips. His weak point compromised, One-eye tumbled to the ground. He raised his sword to swipe at her but Isith beat it down. With a furious cry, she slammed her own blade down upon his wrist, severing through the bone and muscle. The Nord didn’t have time cry out as her blade traveling on to hover briefly over his neck before cutting through it like a guillotine. 

Isith sat back with a sigh. Her respite was brief. She heard Vilkas cry out and turned to see him stumble to the ground. The Argonian lunged at him but Vilkas planted his foot against the bandit’s shins. As the lizard fell back, Vilkas climbed to his feet. By the time they were both righted once more, the Argonian was ready to attack again. 

With a snake-like hiss, he parried Vilkas’s sword, knocking the blade out of his hands. The greatsword landed with a clatter against the gravel. The Nord dove for it but the Argonian kicked out, striking him across the chest and preventing him from reaching it. 

Vilkas tripped backwards. Winded and aching, he doubled over. The Argonian took the chance and pulled his sword back, preparing for the final blow that would skewer straight through the Companion’s heart. 

His muscles tensed before relaxing as he drove the blade home. With a sickening rip in tore through armor and flesh until breaching through breastbone and finally out the other side. Deep green eyes peered back at him. 

Isith had watched the fight unfold. By the time she was able to reach her comrade it was almost too late. Vilkas had fallen back and without a weapon or even the strength to swing it, he was most certainly lost. So, Isith did the only thing she could do. She took the blow for him. 

She sprinted at the pair and collided into Vilkas with a grunt, shoving him out of the way just as the Argonian’s blade punched forward. 

In confusion, the bandit loosened his grip on his sword and Isith collapsed, the blade embedded deep within her chest. 

Horrified, Vilkas stared down at her. A savage cry of denial ripped from his lips. 

Outraged, he scooped up his fallen sword and cut down the unarmed Argonian. The lizard splayed into the dirt beside Isith. 

His mind raced as he dropped to his knees beside the woman and tried to comprehend the damage that had been done. _Oh, Talos, no._ Every terrible thing he had ever said to her, every blow he ever landed against her, all came back to him as she lay dying before him. Even on the break of death, he thought she was beautiful. She was so young and fair; the sword protruding from her chest seemed as if it should belong in some other world, far away, to be buried instead in the heart of some old, grizzled warrior. 

Isith sputtered, blood streaking freely down the sides of her mouth. Weakly, she fumbled for his hand. Vilkas took it, his eyes wide and his mind churning for anything that might save her. 

“Vilk-Vilkas…” another bout of blood-soaked coughing erupted as she started to speak, “Are you…just going to sit there?” 

He looked at her, his face blank. 

“Pull the,” she coughed again, “the d-damn sword out!” 

Vilkas shook his head, his matted black hair tumbling all around and sticking to his sweaty skin. “No! You will bleed to death.” 

Even in death she managed to glare at him. “I am bleeding to death.” Her voice was growing weaker. She squeezed his hand reassuringly and pulled it over to the grip the handle of the sword. 

“Wait!” He jerked his hand away and looked around. His hands drifted to his own armor, the messy array of pelts and leather that had been crudely stitched together. He ripped away some of the leather straps from his chest piece and laid them on the ground beside him. A dagger was tucked into the boot of the dead Argoninian and he grabbed it, using it to cut off thick strips of hide and fur from his armor. 

“Alright,” he said as he laid the final pieces down. “Are you ready?” 

Isith nodded weakly. “Do it.” 

Placing both hands on the pommel of the sword, Vilkas pulled up. Any sound the sword made as it exited was drowned out by Isith’s scream. 

Vilkas wasted none of the precious seconds as he pressed the pelts and thick leather over the wound, stopping the blood from spurting out. With the strips of leather, he tied the makeshift bandages as best he could. 

“I must turn you over.” He didn’t wait for permission from the cursing woman as he rolled her over gently so that he could do the same to the wound on her back. 

“There. It’s done.” When he received no biting reply he checked her for a pulse. She was breathing. Barely. She had passed out from the pain. 

Vilkas scooped her up gently and carried her to the horses. Thankful to find that they were still there, he hoisted her up onto the gelding and climbed on behind her. Shadowmere followed like a loyal dog as Vilkas guided his horse toward Ivarstead 


	7. Chapter 7

For three days, Isith lay unconscious in a bed at Vilemyr Inn. After slaying the bandits, Vilkas had come stumbling into the inn with Isith limp in his arms. Only by sheer luck and the girl’s indomitable will did she survive. A traveling healer from the College of Winterhold had just arrived in Ivarstead and was at the bar when Vilkas came in. The healer, an Altmer named Evrim, had taken one look at Isith before he snatched her from the Nord’s arms and rushed her off to his room without even sparing time for introductions. 

Vilkas, too tired to protest, dragged behind him silently. Evrim was a man of few words and did not bother to ask how Isith had received her wound. Instead, he spent the better part of the night stabilizing her, the hum of Restoration magic echoing through the hall into the late hours. It was only after the next morning that he finally introduced himself to Vilkas. The human greeted him with the same awe one would expect to experience with any other walking, talking miracle. 

Chuckling, Evrim assured Vilkas that he was one of the best healers in all of Skyrim and told the man to get some rest. The hours Vilkas did not spend sleeping were dedicated to hovering worriedly over Evrim’s shoulder or pacing semi-circles around Isith’s bed. After approximately the sixty-seventh time that Vilkas inquired whether or not Evrim expected the woman to pull through, the mage finally banned the Companion from the room and locked the door behind him. 

It was just after sundown on the third day that Isith finally awoke. Evrim called the Nord into the room, which only took a few moments since Vilkas was hovering just outside the door. The most intense feeling of relief he could ever remember experiencing washed over him when his eyes fell on the injured but responsive woman who was propped up against a pillow. 

Isith’s eyes hovered just above her lower lashes, bleary and unfocused. Vilkas rushed to her side, nearly knocking Evrim in to the wall, and sat gently upon the bed. 

“How are you feeling?” Gingerly, as if afraid she would break, he placed one hand on her shoulder, carefull to avoid the bandages covering her chest. 

Isith turned her eyes slowly towards him, blinking several times as she tried to focus. 

“Farkas?” A weak smile spread across her lips. 

Disappointed, Vilkas shook his head, causing freshly scrubbed tresses of dark hair fall into his face. 

“No,” he corrected gently, “It’s Vilkas.” 

Almost comically, Isith’s brow and lips puckered and she frowned. 

“You look an awful lot like Farkas.” 

Vilkas felt his own grin spreading and resisted the urge to plant a happy kiss atop her forehead when he heard the adorable pout in her weak voice. Almost immediately after thinking so, he mentally scolded himself for having such thoughts. The girl wasn’t up and out of the bed just yet and they still had much to talk about once she was. 

“My chest hurts,” she complained grumpily as she weakly lifted a hand to tug at the bandages. 

Evrim appeared on the other side of the bed, tut-tutting at her. He wagged his long, slender finger at her and moved her hand away before she did any harm. 

“Who r’you.” She frowned again as she looked up at the elf. 

“I am Evrim, mage and scholar from the College of Winter-“ 

“Hm, tha’s nice.” 

Vilkas chuckled and looked apologetically up at the healer. Evrim sighed and before turning away, said, “And here I thought she’d be so charming.” 

After a few more minutes of delirious conversation with Isith, Vilkas finally let her sleep once more and retreated quietly from the room. 

Evrim was waiting for him at one of the corner tables of the inn and Vilkas joined him. 

“She looks much better.” He said as he took a seat. 

Evrim grunted and popped a crusty piece of bread from the table into his mouth. As he chewed, he said, “That’s what has me…perplexed.” With an audible gulp, he swallowed and looked at Vilkas as if awaiting an answer. Vilkas only stared back him. 

When the Nord remained silent, Evrim continued on. “I believe that she may have survived the wound even without my aid-“ 

“That’s impossible! You saw her yourself. She was on death’s door.” 

The elf glared at the man for interrupting him. “Indeed. Tell me, has she always had such a… _natural inclination_ towards healing rapidly.” 

“What are you saying, Evrim? Speak plainly.” Vilkas’ voice was tinged with frustration. 

“What I’m _saying_ is that since you managed to stop the bleeding when you did, she may have been able to heal on her own. Granted she would likely still be comatose but I believe she would have pulled through eventually. It would be still be months before she was fully functional without my aid, however. Yet, she would very likely be alive.” 

Vilkas looked from Evrim to the table and back again as he tried to process what the elf was saying. Was it her Dragonborn blood? _No, it can’t be. The Dragonborn is mortal just like any other man_. For the first time in several days, he began to wonder once again about the strange woman’s secret past. 

Beside him, the elf was still rambling on about the medical oddity that Isith was proving to be. “I’ve heard of various creatures that have a propensity for regeneration. There are trolls, for instance, though that seems highly unlikely. Sprigans, as well, although she wasn’t bleeding tree sap as far as I could tell. Even more mundane things like vampires or even werewolves-“ 

“No!” came Vilkas sharp retort. 

Evrim eyed the Nord curiously. 

Vilkas fumbled for an explanation, “What I mean to say is that in my experience as a Companion, werewolves _and_ vampires, too, of course, are still subject to such a lethal blow as any other creature. They can heal more quickly than regular humans over time but it is not anything so remarkable.” 

If the High Elf had any further suspicions, he kept them to himself. “Regardless,” he said, “Let us just be thankful for small mercies and the school of Restoration. She should be fit to ride in a few days.” 

“Will she be able to wield a sword again?” 

“If she keeps on healing so well, I don’t see why not. I’ll continue to perform what healing I can for the time being.” 

Vilkas thanked the good mage by ordering him the finest wine available at the inn. 

…………………………………………………… 

Two more days passed and Isith continued to heal. Five days into the ordeal and she was already fit enough to scold Vilkas for babying her. 

“You’re like a wet nurse, I swear! Fawning over me this way and that, dabbing my head with a cool rag, tucking me in…this is terrible! I want bad-tempered broody Vilkas back right now!” 

She actually smiled at the scowl Vilkas shot from his perch at her bed side. “See there he is! The Vilkas that hates me unconditionally is the only one for me.” 

Still sour-faced, Vilkas told her exactly how he felt about the matter. “You jumped in front of a blade for me, girl, I think I owe a little bit of kindness at least.” 

“Spoon feeding me is not kindness, Vilkas, it’s mothering! The old you would have dumped the hot soup all over me.” 

“I still might if you don’t hush. Besides, don’t think you have earned my trust yet. It’ll take more than a sword through the chest to get you that.” 

“Well, what do you want then?” Isith was looking sincerely perturbed. 

Vilkas leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of her so that he was looking her squarely in the face. “Honesty.” 

Isith shied away at the seriousness she saw reflected in his silvery eyes. “About what?” 

Vilkas did not move away as he spoke, “About everything. I want to know exactly what you’ve been hiding from everyone. Tell me that and then, maybe, you and I will call a truce.” 

Grumbling, Isith looked away. _He has got to be kidding me. I impale myself on a sword and he still wants to harp about my past._ She battled with herself for several minutes and Vilkas stared down at her the entire time. 

In the end, she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. How could he forgive her when she had yet to forgive herself? Vilkas would just as soon skewer her before he let her explain. She could see the confrontation now: 

_“Gee, Vilkas. I know you hate me but I think I’ll tell you all my dirty secrets because of those puppy eyes of yours.”_

_“Yes, I do hate you. Please, give me a reason to kill you.”_

_“Certainly! You see, I’m an assassin.”_

_Vilkas would step back then and run and grab his sword. **Swoosh! Squish!** That would be the sound of the greatsword severing through her neck. Even Evrim, with all his mighty healing powers couldn’t reattach a severed head. Oh no…she would not be sharing that story today. Not until she was fit enough to run for her life. _

Isith looked away. “Leave me, wolf. You won’t get that from me today.” 

Vilkas’ dark brows raised in surprise. He had honestly expected her to tell him _something_. He continued to look down at her for a moment longer, perplexed by the battling emotions that flashed through her eyes. 

With a resigned and frustrated sigh, he stood and left the room, leaving Isith to wallow all alone in her self-pity. 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….. 

Vilkas didn’t check on her again until dinner time. Evrim could manage the thorny little Nord on his own. Vilkas had spent the better part of the evening bent over a tankard of mead, arguing with himself about what to do with Isith. 

Yes, she had saved his life but that wasn’t proof of loyalty. _Not really,_ he thought grimly. It was proof of a crazy streak that led to a split second decision to throw herself on a blade. 

_Maybe she did it on purpose? To gain my trust…yes!....No. Isith loves Isith far too much to risk that_ . _But if she is that conniving_ … 

Vilkas took another long gulp of the bitter mead, grumbling aloud. Part of him just couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut that told him that, while she was clearly evil and not to be trusted, she wasn’t all bad either. _Something is in there,_ he thought, _hidden deep down. Something has made her this way._ Maybe it was a sixth sense telling him to dig a little deeper but he wasn’t just going to run her through until he knew more. _For Farkas’ sake._

He finished off his drink and headed off in the direction of Evrim’s room. The elf was just stepping out of the room when he bumped into Vilkas. 

“Going to check on our patient, I see.” The High Elf spoke quietly and left the door slightly ajar. 

Vilkas peeked in, suddenly unsure as to whether or not he really wanted to see her. 

“She’s sleeping?” he asked when he noticed how still her form was against the bed sheets. 

Evrim nodded. “I slipped her a draught in her meal. She was fidgeting around so much I worried she would cause herself harm. She’s fiery, that one.” 

“Yes, it is annoying.” Vilkas replied quietly, peering once more through the crack. Evrim raised one of his perfectly arched eyebrows curiously. 

The Altmer shook his head. “I can’t decide whether you hate her or love her.” 

It took Vilkas a moment to register what he heard. “ _What_ did you say, elf?” 

“You heard me. Which is it?” 

“I _loathe_ her. She is no friend of mine.” 

Evrim watched him skeptically. _Blasted High Elves_ …Vilkas thought bitterly. 

“Do you want to know what I think?” 

“Not particularly.” Vilkas snapped, so loud that he saw Isith stir from her place on the bed. 

“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway.” 

_Of course you are…_ the warrior glared at him impatiently. 

“I think that you are fascinated by her. I’ve watched the way you look at her, the way she speaks to you…it _ruffles your feathers_ , Nord. She is not intimidated by you, nor does she respect you. You’ve never met anyone like her have you?” Vilkas started to speak up but Evrim hushed him. 

“Rhetorical question. Let me continue- it’s these things that keep you from throttling her in her sleep, I think. You do not know what to make of her and _that_ , my friend, is why you are so threatened by her.” 

Vilkas stared back at him, flabbergasted, which was not something that happened to Vilkas very often. What the elf was saying…it made sense. _It makes sense? No, no, it makes **no** sense. Damn Altmer doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I am threatened by her because she cannot be trusted. She is hiding something. But I can’t just strike her down. Hmm, _ he glanced through the door once more, _She’s pretty when she sleeps…oh, Ysgramor, focus you fool!_

When he looked back at Evrim, the elf was watching him with a smug smile. 

“You think out loud, my friend.” He said. 

Vilkas scowled and jostled the mage out of the way as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. 

Isith was still sleeping soundly as Vilkas took his usual seat in a chair in the corner. From there he was able to keep a watchful eye on her without being too close. He had made that mistake once already. It was during their second night at the inn, before she had awoken for the first time, and Vilkas had been on the brink of madness with guilt. With her sacrifice still fresh in his mind, he hadn’t had much time to demonize her. How many times had she saved while in the cave? Three. The thought had made Vilkas feel that much worse. 

When Evrim left the room to take a break, Vilkas had made the mistake of sitting on the edge of the bed. She had looked so terrible…so weak…so very much unlike herself that he hadn’t been able to fight the compulsion of reaching out to touch her face. As if he were caressing a lover, he let his fingers trail down her face to trace the shape of her lips. 

Evrim, thank Ysgramor, had come in unexpectedly at that moment and Vilkas had drawn his hand away. Now, several days later, Vilkas didn’t feel that he could let himself succumb to that weakness again. So, as a precaution, he hunkered down in his chair across the room. 

How many hours passed, he wasn’t sure. He had dozed off, his head lolled back against the scratchy padding of the chair, when he heard the whispered sounds of distress coming from the bed. Drowsy from sleep, Vilkas sat up, rubbing his eyes and grumbling. 

He quickly shook the stupor when he heard Isith whimper. She lay on the bed, still asleep from the looks of things, but she was not resting. Her hands were clenching at the bed clothes and her head rolled fitfully from side to side. Vilkas stood and went over to her, ready to wake her when she spoke. 

Her words were soft through her sleep though the notes of fear and panic were easy to detect. 

“No…won’t kill anymore…shroud of…the Nightmother…” 

She was having another nightmare, Vilkas realized, though this one was much less intense. 

Her feverish mumbling continued and Vilkas could not bring himself to wake her. _What_ was she talking about? 

“no…my life…not…for Sithis…” 

_Sithis? Sithis!!_ Vilkas reeled back as if the sleeping woman had struck him. He knew from the countless hours he had spent reading, _exactly_ who the dread god was. The first mention of him that Vilkas could recall every reading about was in a book concerning the Shadowscales of Black Marsh, a group of skilled fighters –well, assassins- that Vilkas had found intriguing. Other than the information contained in that book, Vilkas knew relatively little about the dark entity. 

_What in Talos’ name does she have to do with Sithis? Damn her!_ Vilkas leaned over her and gripped her shoulders roughly, so hard that there would likely be bruises for Evrim to heal later. If she was even still breathing later. 

“Wake up!” Vilkas growled as he shook her. 

Isith stirred, her eyes fluttering open and then snapping to attention when she saw the look on Vilkas’ face. 

“What-“ her words were drowned out by the malice in Vilkas’ voice as he spoke to her. 

“You have one chance, Isith, to tell me the truth or so help me Talos, _I will end you_.” 

Isith stared at him, shell-shocked. She cried out when he shook her again, yelping from the pain it inflicted on her injury. 

“Vilkas, I –“ 

_“_ How do you know of Sithis?”Vilkas’ eyes flared with the eerie orange of the beast within and he had to struggle to control his rage lest he transform here and now. 

Isith’s face twisted into one of confusion and horror, her angelic features contorting past the point of being unrecognizable. 

“Release me and I will tell you.” She whimpered quietly, her eyes pleading with him for a moment of rationality. 

Vilkas hesitated but eventually he snatched his hands away. 

“Speak.” It was an order. 

She cast her eyes up to meet Vilkas’ and said meekly, “Swear to me that you won’t drive another sword through my heart when I tell you this.” 

Vilkas didn’t make the promise. He sat back and folded his arms across his chest, the hard stare he had so loved to give her before their little bonding experience returned once more. 

“I…I was,” Isith paused and took a deep breath, “I’m the Listener for the Dark Brotherhood, Vilkas.” 

It was as if she had lit him on fire. Vilkas shot up from the bed and slammed his fist against the nearest wall before whirling back around to face her, his face twisted in an alarming mix of rage and betrayal. _Of course! Now it all makes sense…her combat prowess, her inclination for stealth, her damned, damned secrets!_

Isith held his gaze, unwavering beneath the searing heat of it, and asked him to sit down. “Let me explain, Vilkas. There is more to it than you know.” 

“You’re an assassin! What else is there to know? I should have seen this. I knew you couldn’t be trusted.” It was a biting reply but Isith had been prepared for it. 

“You wanted the truth. I’m giving it to you.” 

Reluctantly, Vilkas eased himself back onto the bed, the anger rolling off of him in waves. _Fine...she saved my life, now I suppose –_ he was bitter at the thought – _that she has earned the chance to try and save her own._ It took every ounce of self-control he had to force himself to allow her that right. 

…………………………………………………………………………. 

For nearly an hour, the two of them sat there as Isith explained everything from her past with the Thieves Guild to her time with the Brotherhood. The only thing she had neither the heart nor the courage to tell him was that she had been the one behind the assassination of the Emperor. By the time she had finished her tale, Vilkas’ anger had abated somewhat. To her surprise, he seemed almost empathetic. She had the sneaking suspicion that Vilkas’ attempt to try and see the situation from her side was her only saving grace. She doubted, however, that if she had not leapt in front of sword for him, that he would never have given her the chance to explain in the first place. Underneath that fiery exterior she saw in him the potential to be a fair and (somewhat) open-minded individual. 

A long moment of silence stretched out between them when she had finished speaking. Every word she said seemed to be tumbling around in Vilkas’ mind as he tried to make sense of it all. 

When he finally decided to speak he didn’t draw his dagger, which Isith took as a good sign. 

“And you say these assassins are searching for you now?” 

“Yes…” 

“And they plan on killing you when they find you?” 

“I have no idea. Maybe, maybe not. The Brotherhood doesn’t put much stock in the will of the Nightmother anymore.” 

Vilkas mulled that over for a moment. “That night when I found you screaming in your sleep…you say that this matron, the _Nightmother_ , was attacking you?” 

Isith said that had indeed been the case. “She told me that she owned me, that I would never be able to escape.” 

“And is she right?” 

_I sure as Oblivion hope not…_ Isith shrugged and glanced away. “Escaping her isn’t the issue, I can handle a few nightmares every once and a while. The problem is escaping the Brotherhood. My second, Nazir, is looking for me as we speak.” 

“And why exactly do you feel the need to endanger the lives of everyone at Jorrvaskr while you hide from him?” Vilkas didn’t look pleased at all with the idea. 

“Aw, are you scared of a few assassins, my big strong warrior-man?” 

It did not go unnoticed by her when Vilkas’ expression softened for the briefest of seconds before he quickly hid behind his stony mask again. _Oh, no. No, no, no…shame on you, Vilkas! S_ he tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed and went on explaining. 

“Look, when I left the Brotherhood, only three assassins remained. If they come to Jorrvaskr, Vilkas, I give you my word that I will lay down my swords and go quietly before any harm comes to the Companions.” Her words rang so true that they surprised even her. 

Regardless of what she swore, Vilkas shook his head slowly in disbelief. “No, you won’t.” 

“I would-“ 

Another hard stare from him and she shut her mouth. She flinched when he reached out and clasped his hand over her shoulder. He forced her chin up and held her gaze as he spoke, “You won’t go with these assassins should they come for you, Isith. All the Companions will be at your side to raise their weapons against your enemies…shield-sister.” 

Isith could hardly believe the words she was hearing. Her eyes searched his for any sign of mockery or deceit and when she found none, she released a heavy breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. It had taken a brush with death and the story of her life to do it but she finally felt like she belonged within the ranks of the Companions. 

She couldn’t help herself from throwing her arms around Vilkas’ shoulders in elation. Vilkas tensed when she tugged him forward but eventually found himself tentatively patting her on the back. 

When she sat back, wincing from the strain the movement put on her injury, she was still grinning from ear to ear. 

Vilkas, still reeling from the sudden contact, briskly stood up and muttered something about having to compensate Evrim for his services and hurried from the room. Isith chirped cheerfully after him and told him to give the elf a hug on her behalf. Whether he listened, she neither knew nor cared, she simply sat there smiling for the rest of the morning. 

…………………………………………………………………………………. 

Their return to Jorrvaskr did not go as smoothly as they had hoped. Word of their arrival had been sent to Kodlak from one of the other whelps as soon as Isith and Vilkas had entered the city. The Harbinger was waiting, arms crossed, in the main hall when the two overdue Companions stepped through the door. Farkas stood by his side, having returned two days earlier from his excursion to Markarth. The twin looked even more distraught than the old man. 

All eyes were on them as Vilkas helped a limping, heavily-bandaged Isith through the door. Before departing from the Vilemyr Inn, Evrim had made sure to set Isith’s left arm in a sling so that no extra weight would be pulling down on the freshly restored wound. She tried to cover it with her cloak but it was of little use. 

Even Vilkas blanched under Kodlak’s hard glare. It had been a long, _long_ time since he had seen the Harbinger so cross. In fact, he was fairly certain the last time had been when a toddler-sized Farkas had tackled a much smaller Vilkas for eating the last of the sweet rolls. Somehow, he doubted he and Isith would walk away with only a few extra chores and sore rumps. 

Without so much as a greeting, Kodlak demanded, “My quarters, young ones. Now.” 

The three of them marched down to the Harbinger’s office at the tempo of a funeral dirge. Farkas followed them, refusing to look at either his brother or Isith along the way. None of them took a seat as Kodlak locked the doors behind them. 

“Where in the name of Ysgramor have the two of you been?” 

Isith flinched. Kodlak could be rather terse when he wanted to be. 

Vilkas stepped forward, leaving Isith to prop herself up against a table near the door. 

“There were some…complications with the bandits, Harbinger. Isith was wounded-“ 

“Gravely.” The woman muttered, earning her a severe glare from both Vilkas and Kodlak. 

Vilkas continued, “Yes, she was injured rather seriously –“ 

“Why did no one tell me of this?” Farkas asked, his eyes like pinpoints on his twin. 

Vilkas ignored him so, instead, Farkas went to hover near Isith. He prodded her shoulder and she yelped. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “I’m glad to see you’re okay.” 

The smaller twin cleared his throat impatiently. “May I continue?” 

“If you want.” Farkas replied with a shrug. 

Rolling his eyes, Vilkas turned his attention back to the waiting Harbinger. “After the final battle, Isith risked her own life to save mine. She took a blow that was meant for me. When she fell, I was able to defeat the remaining leader and I then took her immediately to Ivarstead. We have – By Ysgramor, what in Oblivion is it now?” 

Vilkas whipped around, scowling as he heard a commotion coming from the hall. Several shouts rang out and a moment later the doors to Kodlak’s quarters flew open, splintering near the lock. 

Brynjolf stepped into view, his auburn hair as wild as his eyes. Several of the lower ranking Companions hovered in the hallway, unsure of what to do. 

“ _Where is she_?” The brogue of his voice made the question all the more menacing. 

From her corner, Isith called out to him. “I’m right here, Bryn.” 

Farkas watched the man carefully and as Brynjolf moved toward Isith, he stepped protectively in front of her. Both men were imposing in their own right with Brynjolf only being an inch or two shorter than the darker haired Nord and nearly as muscular. 

Brynjolf regarded his challenger with interest. Had it been anyone smaller, the thief would likely have thrown them out of the way. Instead, Brynjolf turned to Kodlak, who was observing everything with practiced patience. 

“Forgive me for interrupting your little gathering, Kodlak, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut it short.” Brynjolf’s tone left little room for debate. 

Kodlak extended his hand to Brynjolf in an attempt to call for peace. “Calm yourself, young man. Your guildmaster is in no condition to go anywhere at this time.” 

Farkas was the next to speak. He turned, a difficult thing to do in the crowded little room, and looked down at Isith, who was smiling innocently back at him. 

“Guildmaster? What are we talking about now?” He looked at Vilkas, his blue eyes full of confusion. “Brother, do you know what they’re talking about?” 

Vilkas gave him a shrug as if to say “ _sort of_ ”. Farkas ran a hand through his messy hair and muttered, “No one ever tells me anything.” Isith patted him on the arm sympathetically and pulled him back out of the fray. 

Next to Kodlak, Brynjolf was still spitting mad. He turned to the Harbinger again and demanded, “You swore to me that you’d protect her, old man! Look at her! She would be safer with me back in Riften.” 

Farkas bristled upon catching the tail end of the thief’s statement but remained silent. 

Kodlak, not wishing to complicate the situation further, cut his eyes at the boy and his brother and dismissed them. 

Both twins began to argue but were quieted with another glare from their Harbinger. Vilkas stalked out, followed by his brother. Farkas paused beside Isith just long enough to give her one last concerned glance before leaving the room. 

Now that the office had more room to breathe, Kodlak moved to shut the doors once more. 

“Now, speak your piece, thief.” 

Brynjolf finally relaxed. He looked over to Isith and admitted that he had told Kodlak everything in an effort to better protect her. 

Isith seethed and retreated back to her corner. _Oh, I will have words for you, Brynjolf…terrible, nasty words._

“I am worried that Isith might no longer be safe within these walls. She won’t be able to protect herself now.” Brynjolf’s diplomatic side had arrived late to the meeting apparently. 

Kodlak looked at the young woman sympathetically. “Do you feel safe here, Isith?” His voice was smooth and paternal. 

“Yes. The Brotherhood has ties too close to the heart of the Thieves Guild for it to be a safe place for me now.” She tried to ignore the hurt look on Brynjolf’s face as she spoke. He could be angry with her if he chose to but he would eventually realize that she spoke the truth. It was likely that he knew it already and just did not want to admit it. 

“Then it’s settled.” Kodlak said before looking at the thief once more. “You are free to remain here and keep an eye out for you guildmaster if you wish, Brynjolf. Or you can return to Riften and be confident with the promise that no assassin will breach these walls as long as I live.” 

Brynjolf scoffed. “You talk as if that will be forever.” He stared down at his feet dismally. “Fine,” he conceded, “Isith will stay here. But I expect free room and board here at Jorrvaskr. And mead.” 

Isith gaped at him and shook her head furiously. “Absolutely not! Kodlak! He can’t stay here.” 

_Infuriating thief! Rascal!_ Every bitter word she could think of was directed at him. 

Thankfully, Kodlak was on her side. “I will arrange for you to remain at the Bannered Mare during your stay. I fear thieves and warriors are like cats and dogs when in close proximity to each other.” 

Brynjolf didn’t look completely satisfied but he didn’t argue any further. 

By the time they left Kodlak’s room, Isith felt exhausted. She rubbed her temples with her free hand in an effort to fight off an impending headache. 

Brynjolf waited beside her, his eyes examining the sling. 

“You hurt your arm, then?” he asked. 

“No, my arm is fine. I took a sword through the chest. It missed my heart, obviously.” 

Brynjolf’s already fair complexion got paler at the idea of Isith suffering such a wound. He reached out to touch her shoulder and was surprised when she shrugged him off. He pulled back, frowning, and looked away to hide the look of hurt that flashed through his eyes. 

“No, Bryn.” Isith said solemnly. 

“Ah, I understand, lass.” He made a valiant attempt to brush off his wounded pride. “So,” he said, “the tall, dark, and handsome lad, ay?” 

Isith nodded. What else could she say? All she wanted to do at the moment was to fall into the warm, _friendly_ embrace that Brynjolf was always there to offer. In the back of her mind, Vilkas’ words still stung. Until she had a chat with Farkas to establish the parameters of their relationship, if there even were any, she would play the part of chaste maiden even if it killed her. 

“Well,” Brynjolf fumbled with one of the metal clasps on his armor instead of looking at her, “I will leave you to it then. You know where to find me.” 

As he started to walk away, Isith grabbed his wrist. The unexpected contact caused him to freeze in mid-step. 

“Wait,” she was pleading with him now, “You said there were no hard feelings. You said-“ 

“Relax, lass. I’ll be fine. But you have to understand, when studly man such as myself loses his favorite mare it’s quite the blow.” He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 

Isith feigned offence, throwing her right hand to her heart dramatically. “A mare is it? Oh, there will most certainly be no more breeding offers for you!” 

Brynjolf grinned at her, though this time is was one of fondness rather than lasciviousness. “Oh, your spoken for now, lass.” When he was sure no one was looking, he leaned now and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

…………………………………………………………………………………… 

The next several hours found Isith too tired to do anything other than recline lazily in her bed. Tilma had seen fit to stuff a couple of extra pillows under her given her current state of health. Isith had thanked the old woman profusely before settling into the peace and quiet. Her injury seemed to be getting better by the hour though it still pained her greatly every time she so much as flexed a muscle around her shoulders and chest. 

When dinner rolled around, she was sound asleep and shooed everyone who tried to wake her. She dozed off to the sounds of the rumbling voices and laughter that echoed down from the main hall. 

Dinner was still being served when she was jostled from her sleep by the shift of the mattress as someone settled themselves on the edge of her bed. Her eyes flittered open groggily and came to focus on a familiar figure. 

“Mmm, Farkas,” she yawned, still trying to shake the drowsiness of sleep, “I’ll tell you like I told everyone else: I’m not hungry.” 

The big Nord chuckled softly and reached down to stroke Isith’s hair. His hand was warm and she snuggled into the touch, cooing like a dove. 

“How are you feeling?” Even though he was speaking quietly, the pleasant rumble from his voice reverberated so that Isith could feel it in her chest. 

“Give me a few days and I’ll be fine.” 

She moved to set up and was secretly pleased when Farkas reached to help her. Sliding one arm around her back and another along her side, he pulled her up gently. He blushed when he felt Isith shiver under his touch. 

Almost shyly, Isith placed her hand on his before he could move away completely. Farkas froze and glanced up to look at her face. 

She chewed nervously at her bottom lip as she thought of what to say. “Listen, Farkas…we didn’t leave things in the best sort of state last time. I,uh,” _I HATE apologies…why is this so difficult?_ “I just wanted to apologize for snapping at you. I said some things about your brother that I shouldn’t-“ 

Her words trailed off when she felt Farkas’ fingers snake along the back of her neck, combing through the short hair there. Ever so gently he leaned into her, drawing her to him as he did so. Isith paused just shy of his lips. Her heart was pounding so wildly in her chest she was positive he could hear it. She blinked, afraid to meet his eyes, and felt her lashes graze the skin of his cheeks. Farkas smirked at the butterfly-light touch and closed the rest of the distance. 

His lips were surprisingly soft and so delightfully warm, she thought she would melt against them. The kiss was timid at first until she could no longer resist the urge to flick her tongue against his bottom lip. This earned her a pleased groan from the dark-haired Nord and he returned the favor. As the pressure of the kiss began to build, Farkas hitched her closer, pressing her gently to his chest without squeezing her painfully. She would later marvel at the fact that such a giant of man could be so aware of every touch and tease, never crossing a line that shouldn’t be crossed. 

Isith let her fingers trail leisurely through his hair. Farkas seemed to enjoy it as he nipped her bottom lip softly in response. With a groan, Isith broke the kiss and rested her forehead against his. 

“What is this, Isith?” His voice was husky, a sound that nearly sent Isith over the edge. 

She looked at him, her eyes filled with yearning. “What do you want it to be?” 

Farkas lowered his mouth to hers once more, letting his lips brush with hers as he spoke, “I’m not going to lie, I care for you.” He kissed her quickly and pulled back. “Plain and simple.” 

Isith grinned and nuzzled his jaw, “I…feel the same way.” 

He was grinning like a school boy, his pale eyes brighter than she could remember ever seeing them. 

“I’d hug you but I’m afraid I might hurt you.” He said with a smile. 

Isith shrugged. “I’m tougher than I look.” 

“Good, then I won’t have to worry about breaking you.” 

“Farkas!” The voice scolding him was not Isith’s. The two love birds turned to glare at the figure in the doorway. Vilkas stood in the middle of the threshold, arms crossed and looking more than a little perturbed. 

Farkas frowned. “What is it, Vilkas?” 

“You shouldn’t be bothering our shield-sister. She needs to rest.” 

“We were gonna get to the resting part eventually –“ 

“ _Farkas_!” This time both Vilkas and Isith scolded him in unison. Isith, however, was grinning and shaking her head, her chiding stemmed more from embarrassment than anything else. Vilkas, on the other hand, looked unhappy with the whole situation. 

Farkas sighed and looked apologetically at Isith. Shaking his head and grumbling, he stood up from the bed, bending down to place a parting kiss on the top of her head. Vilkas shadowed him out of the room, not pausing to look back at Isith. He was too busy chiding Farkas all the way out of the barracks to pay her much attention. 

With a sigh, Isith leaned back against the headboard of her bed. She brought one hand up to her mouth, gently touching the place where Farkas’ lips had been a minutes earlier. She smiled to herself, relieved that no one was around to see her blush. _That was…unexpected. And undeniably romantic._ It had been a long time since she thought of any man as being romantic. Lustful, yes, but not _romantic_. 

By the time she fell asleep again, she was still smiling and curled up with her back to a pillow, wishing it was a certain dark-haired Nord instead. 


	8. Chapter 8

She was… _itchy_. 

_Insanely_ …itchy. 

Isith’s eyes flew open as the sudden urge to scratch _everything_ overtook her, shaking her rudely from her sleep. Her free hand brushed roughly over every square inch of flesh she could get to. _Ack! What in the name of the gods have I gotten into? Son-of-a…oh that itches!_ Her nails dug into the skin underneath the bandage on her left arm, tugging at bindings until they finally came loose. To Oblivion with healing properly…she needed to scratch _now_. 

Biting back a whimper as she continued her barrage of scratchiness against her own body, Isith tumbled from the bed, barely managing to stand up as her foot felt particularly prickly. Cursing under her breath, Isith fled the room. Dinner had long since passed and her fellow Companions had all retired to their respective cots. 

Her skin felt like it was bursting at the seams as the red-hot irritation crawled beneath her flesh. In the dim light of the hall, Isith paused her scratching long enough to examine her arms. They were unmarked save for the jagged red lines left by her nails. Another flurry of expletives came flowing out and she stomped up the stairs to the main hall. 

As she hopped and bumped her way up the stairs, she remembered back to a time when she was a child at the orphanage in Anvil. She had been playing tag in a garden of lavender and wildflowers when her skin had inexplicably broken out in angry welts and bumps. She had run squalling to one of the caregivers and the woman had promptly dunked her in a tub of cold water to wash away any residue the vile flowers had left. _Learn from one’s past mistakes indeed_ …What she needed was a bath and to have a bath she needed water from the well. _At this rate I’ll just bathe in the town center!_

Outside of the mead hall, the night air did little to soothe the itch that was now more akin to a painful aching. It was only when she reached to rub at her neck that she realized she was sweating profusely. 

She looked at her drenched hand, blinking. 

“What the-” her words were lost by the wail that suddenly ripped from her lungs. 

Isith hit her knees, biting back the urge to scream again, even as her body wracked with another bout of pain. The itching was gone and she instantly wished it would come back and replace the inexplicable pain. Even as she thought this, a high pitched ringing started in her ears as if someone had unceremoniously clashed a gong by her head. 

Too taken by the pain, she did not see the figure stumble from underneath the rocks of the Skyforge nearby. The red-headed Nord was so absorbed in whatever world she was returning from that she did not initially notice Isith until the girl let out another pained groan. 

Too surprised by Isith’s unexpected appearance, the woman held still for a moment. 

“Isith? What in Oblivion are you-“ Aela’s words were cut short as she looked upon the writhing girl before her. 

“By the gods…” If Isith had been paying the huntress any attention she would not have been able to distinguish between the notes of awe and shock. 

Isith finally noticed Aela and looked at her pleadingly, her green eyes shimmering unnaturally in the moonlight. 

“Aela? Help- gahhh!” Another shock rippled through her from her core and she doubled over, nose to the ground. It felt as if something was clawing at her insides, viciously tearing at the very thread of her being and forcing every thought of human comprehension from her mind. 

Isith did not have to speak again. Aela was by her side in a flash and hoisted the smaller girl up. The red-head muttered a string of questions that went unheard by Isith, whose main focus was to keep breathing. 

The little Nord was unable to offer protest when Aela spun her away from Jorrvaskr and instead began moving her to the Underforge. Aela, struggling under the dead weight of her comrade, fished out a hand and slammed it against a loose stone in the wall of rock. 

Had Isith been cognizant, she would have stood back in awe as a massive chunk of stone began to slide downwards into the ground, revealing the hallowed opening to the Circle’s sanctuary. Aela hauled her inside and closed the opening once more. 

Isith wrenched herself from the woman’s grip and collapsed to the floor. When she turned her gaze upward to beg the huntress for direction, her vision faded completely. With a horrified shriek, she reached up with her hands and felt blindly for her eyes. She shouted in surprise when she felt her fingers pulled away and forced to clasp Aela’s. 

“Your sight will return, Isith. This is one of the steps.” 

Isith tried to tug away. “A step to – ah! To what?” 

“You’re changing.” Aela’s voice was firm but reassuringly calm. 

At that moment, no amount of reassurance could have made Isith feel any better. “Changing into what?” Her voice betrayed every ounce of panic she was feeling. 

Aela released her hands and moved to grip her face, holding it firmly so that Isith was facing her. 

“You’re becoming a wolf. You need to calm yourself. The calmer you are, the easier this will be.” 

She had said exactly the wrong thing to calm the little Nord. With previously unknown strength, Isith shoved the woman back, sending her sprawling several feet away. 

“Make it stop!” Isith screamed. 

The heat within her was becoming unbearable now. Her body shuddered and twitched and the first of her bones began to pop. It felt as if each one was breaking individually, every snap earning another yelp of agony. Unable to stop herself, Isith stretched forward into the dirt, her hands clawing at the dusty floor. 

From the spot where Isith had tossed her, Aela stood and continued to coach the younger woman through the transformation. 

“You have to breathe, Isith. Steady your breath.” 

Formerly green eyes turned to meet with Aela’s and the huntress couldn’t contain her gasp when the green began to give way to a golden hue of yellow. The color spread from the center outward, seeping through the irises like gilded ink on parchment. 

A bone crunching snap resounded through the Underforge as the final stages of the transformation took place. Aela retreated toward the door, unwilling to risk remaining too close to a newly turned werewolf. 

Thick soot-colored fur burst from every inch of Isith’s pores, concealing in its wake the formerly pale skin and sun-colored hair. Any physical characteristics of Isith’s human appearance were now gone, replaced by a hulking seven-foot bipedal wolf. 

With a roar loud enough to loosen shards of rock from the ceiling, Isith whirled to face the huntress, her lupine features twisted into a snarl. Every fiber of the beast ached to pounce at the woman but what remained of Isith reined the urge in as best she could. It was an indescribable feeling…having two consciences battling at once in a single body, each fighting viciously for control instead of working in harmony. 

Ignoring the bloodlust she knew was raging within the beast, Aela was calm when she spoke. “The change is complete, sister. The worst of the curse is passed.” 

The wolf growled in response. Clearly, werewolf Isith was even more cantankerous than the human version. Aela smirked at the observation. 

“Go now and revel in the power of your new form. When you awake in the morning, you will not be alone.” As she spoke, Aela smiled and lifted her hand to point at a concealed passage in the back of the Underforge. “It leads out to the plains.” She explained simply. 

Within the blink of an eye, Isith was gone, leaving Aela to glimpse the very tip of her tail as it flitted around the corner. 

She not unnerved per se when she turned to go tell the others but, instead, her mind was churning at the question of who could have led to Isith’s unceremonious and unexpected change of nature. 

……………………………………………………………………………………….. 

Aela was not known for polite wake-up calls. Vilkas had almost forgotten how sharp the woman could be when she wanted to rouse a person from their sleep. 

He thought he was having a nightmare when he heard the woman’s voice ringing in his ear. 

“Wake up, Vilkas!” 

“Nunh…Go. Away.” Vilkas rolled over onto his other side with a grumble. 

Aela’s hand came down hard on the back of his head. “Isith has the beastblood.” 

_Yes, definitely a nightmare_ . Vilkas mumbled something incoherent and ignored her. 

“Get up, fool! She changed only moments ago. She’s left the city.” 

Suddenly, Vilkas felt wide awake. He flipped back over and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “ _What_?” 

Aela, not one for repeating herself, only glared at him. 

Before Vilkas could say anything else, Skjor appeared in the doorway. Aela had obviously woke him up before she came to Vilkas as he was out of his night clothes and dressed in a set of loose fitting cotton garments, the sort of clothes that would not shred to pieces entirely after a change in form. The huntress turned to him and asked, “Did you wake Farkas?” 

Skjor nodded and said that he had. 

Vilkas’ narrowed his eyes at them both, his icy stare colder than normal. “What. Have. You. Done?” He pronounced each word through clenched teeth. 

Aela returned his dark look. “I was going to ask you the same question.” 

Every part of him wanted to leap at the pair of Companions. _Blasted fools! To accept the curse is one thing but to force it on another…it’s unspeakable! I would do no such thing, not to_ her _. Oh, Isith…_

Before Vilkas’ temper got the better of him, his twin appeared, bleary-eyed and confused. 

“What’s going on?” Farkas asked with a yawn, covering his wide mouth with the back of his hand. “Skjor said it was important.” 

Vilkas had to muster the courage to look his brother in the face. “It’s Isith, brother. She is-“ 

Aela finished the sentence for him. “She’s one of us now.” 

Farkas swiped his hand over his eyes. “A Companion?” 

“No, dung-for-brains! She’s a werewolf.” Aela snapped. 

All of sudden, Farkas didn’t look so sleepy anymore. “She is? That can’t be right.” 

Much like his brother’s had moments before, Farkas’ eyes narrowed on the huntress. “What’d you do to her?” It wasn’t a threat but it could quickly become one. 

Skjor snapped at him, “ _We_ didn’t do anything, boy.” 

Farkas glared at him but eventually turned his gaze to the huntress. “What happened?” 

Aela rolled her eyes. “I just watched her turn! I was coming back from my own hunt when I found her wallowing on the ground near the Underforge! Someone – and it was neither me nor Skjor – has turned her.” 

Farkas looked around, his dark hair flipping over his shoulders from the movement. “Don’t look at me! I didn’t do it.” 

“Well,” Skjor turned to look at the smaller twin, “That leaves you, Vilkas.” 

Vilkas leapt up from his bed, jabbing his finger into the chest of the older man. “Are you accusing me of passing this damned curse on to someone else? I wouldn’t have done it even if she begged me!” 

Beside Skjor, Aela released a breath of frustration. “We can figure this out later. Right now, someone needs to go after her.” 

Skjor nodded in agreement, “I will go but we need to hurry before she causes any damage.” 

Farkas stepped up and nodded his head. “I’ll join you. What about you, Vilkas?” 

Across from him, Vilkas blanched. He floundered for some sort of explanation _. I can’t turn again…it’s too much._ Part of him ached at the thought. Was it cowardice? _Never,_ Vilkas admitted bitterly, _but it’s too great a risk. Not after the last time. Not when I almost killed her. Oh, Talos!_ He felt like a mammoth had stampeded over him at the realization. _What if I infected her with the curse? No!_ He would have to think about that later. For now, Farkas and Skjor would have to manage alone. 

“I can’t go through the change, brother.” 

Farkas was not pleased. “But Isith needs you! Why won’t you-“ 

“Enough, Farkas! I won’t do it. You’ll have to go with Skjor.” 

Farkas glared at him, unable to understand what was holding his brother back. “Fine then. We should be off.” 

Vilkas caught his arm before he turned to go. “Bring her back safely, Farkas.” 

The bigger Nord shook him off. “I intend to.” 

…………………………………………………………… 

“What…oh, my head…” _I’m never drinking again._

Isith awoke with a pained a groan, rolling slowly onto her back. Every single fiber of her body hurt, right down to the tips of her fingers. Her hand shot out, fumbling blindly for the pillow that _should_ have been under her head. When her fingers curled around the soft damp grass, Isith opened her eyes, blinking in the confusion characteristic of early morning drowsiness. _Where am I?_

The only thing on her mind other than her current state of achiness was the terrifying and vivid nightmare she had dreamt. Slowly, the remnants of the dream began to fall into place. Had she been running from something? Or was she chasing after someone? There had been fields and farms, all passing by in a blur. And that damned _howling_ …with another groan, Isith tried to forget all about it. 

“You’re awake. Good-“ 

Isith cried out and went rigid at the sudden sound of the voice nearby. Struggling to set up, she looked around and was surprised…no, stupefied to discover she was not in her cot at Jorrvaskr but instead curled up on the ground in the middle of a thicket of trees. Farkas sat a few inches from her and for the first time she became aware of the hand he was currently running back and forth over her bare shoulder. 

“Farkas?” She sounded so alarmed that she might have offended anyone other than the big Nord beside her. 

“What…where am I? Why am I outside?” 

Several yards away, another man who she had yet to notice spoke. “You’re confused, young one. That’s typical after what you just went through.” 

_Skjor_ ? Isith shifted her gaze to the other side of the thicket and saw that it was indeed the older Nord. 

She suddenly became all too aware of what she was doing outside. The nightmare hadn’t been a figment of her imagination at all. The memories were real. The realization of the moment was enough to drive the wind from her lungs. 

_Werewolf! No! That can’t be possible…Gods, I remember everything now. The transformation, the pain, Aela…this isn’t right. This can’t be right!_ Dizzy at the thought, Isith fell back to the ground, the earth squishing uncomfortably beneath her. 

_What if I…killed someone? Oblivion, I don’t remember!_ The only thing that stopped her from crying out in frustration was the steady petting of Farkas’ hand on her shoulders. 

“You’re fine-“ he was cut off by a sharp retort from the woman at his side. 

“I don’t care if _I’m_ fine, Farkas! Gods, did I kill anyone?” 

To desert the Dark Brotherhood in an effort to flee a past of bloodshed and duplicity only to fall prey to the fate of lycanthropy, cursed to submit to her free will to the whims of a beast? _No._

Farkas answered her silently with the shake of his head. 

Skjor spoke up, “You shredded a young fawn but other than that-“ 

A horrified whimper escaped Isith’s lips. She pulled her hands to her mouth and tried her best to fight the sobs that were threatening to choke out of her throat. Part of her wanted to reassure herself that the death of an animal was infinitely less devastating than the death of an innocent person but somewhere in the back of her mind that failed to make her feel better. The knowledge that she now had the ability to kill without discretion terrified her to the very core of her being. 

As an assassin she had _chosen_ to kill, she _allowed_ the darker part of her soul to take over and end lives as she saw fit. But as a werewolf? The monster within was no longer figurative. 

Farkas recoiled slightly from the unexpected barrage of sobs from the woman at his side but quickly recovered and pulled Isith to him, shifting her so that she was partly draped over his lap, her face buried in the crook of his arm. 

“It’s not all that bad, Isith.” He said quietly. “You will learn to control it. We all did.” 

Another loud whine seemed to say that Isith disagreed. 

“You don’t understand,” she muttered, sitting up and brushing away her tears. She took a few moments to calm herself so that her voice was steady when she started speaking again. 

“I know the curse can be controlled…I’ve seen it done. It just makes me…a little less human.” 

It was the wrong thing to say. 

Skjor took offence and stopped what he was doing to march over to her and drag her roughly from Farkas’ lap. With a snarl, Isith jerked away and fell back down to the ground with a plop. 

“You’re no less human than you were yesterday!” Skjor snapped as he knelt down to look Isith in the eyes. “Is Farkas a monster?” 

Isith glared at him. “No.” 

The older man wasn’t satisfied. “Is Kodlak a monster?” 

“No.” 

“And Vilkas?” 

“That’s debatable.” Isith mumbled with a huff. 

Skjor smacked her over the side of the head just hard enough to show her now was not the time for sarcasm. 

Rubbing the offended spot, Isith inched closer to Farkas as she continued to hold Skjor’s one-eyed gaze. 

“You don’t have to view this as a gift, girl, but that doesn’t make it a curse either. You’ll eventually learn to control it, just as we all have, and you’ll be that much stronger for it.” The more the grizzled veteran spoke, the less angry he sounded. 

_What he says…it’s true, I suppose._ Isith couldn’t deny the fact. The proof was all around her. With another grumble, she nodded at Skjor in understanding. _He’s like a scary, hot-tempered Kodlak._

His well-meaning scolding done with, Skjor straightened up and looked at Farkas, who was watching the whole exchange with minimum interest. 

“You should give the girl the clothes we brought.” 

Farkas shrugged and gave his best effort at what could best be called a devious smile. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” 

Beside him, Isith glanced down and was horrified to discover she was stark-staring naked. With a flurry of curses, she swatted at Farkas, clipping him along the ear. 

Her sudden outburst served to lighten the mood and both men laughed, with Farkas retreating out of Isith’s swinging range. To pursue him meant that she would have to uncover herself and she blatantly refused to do so, drawing her legs up tightly against her chest and waiting impatiently for Skjor to toss her a bag full of clothes. 

The men stood there watching as she rummaged through the contents, strings of unlady-like words escaping from her lips periodically. 

“Shoo!” Isith waved her hand at them and demanded they disappear while she got dressed. 

Skjor obliged without further ado, dragging the younger man behind him and leaving Isith to dress. 

……………………………………………………………………… 

The trip back to Jorrvaskr was fairly silent save for Farkas’ somewhat uncharacteristic rambling as he regaled a grumpy and upset Isith with stories from his earlier days as a werewolf. 

Occasionally, Isith would find herself laughing but her sullen mood always returned shortly after. Though she tried to hide it, her mind was far away, still churning over the newest development in her life. She was not so foolish as to think that Farkas did not notice. The big Nord would occasionally reach out and stroke her arm or hair each time he saw that far away look appear in her eyes, drawing Isith back to him just long enough so that she would reward him with a smile. 

Skjor said very little until they reached the city gates, where he parted with them to check on “some business with Eorlund.” As the remaining two Companions trailed through the city streets, Isith hesitated momentarily at the doors of the Bannered Mare. _Oh, Brynjolf…you really will drag me away this time, won’t you?_ The thought of what the thief might say when he found out she was a werewolf made her stomach churn. 

Farkas caught her hesitation and frowned, the corners of his full mouth turning down unhappily. 

“Do you need to talk to… _him_?” The question caught Isith off guard and she turned to face him. 

A conversation about her ex-lover with Farkas? That was not on the list of things that would make the day better. Sighing, Isith said, “Brynjolf? I don’t know, Farkas.” 

“ _Brynjolf…_ that’s the name. Kodlak said that you knew him from before your time with the Companions.” 

“Yes, Bryn’s an old friend.” 

Farkas’ blue eyes lingered on her face for a moment, not accusingly, but as if he was trying to sort out the meaning of her words. 

Farkas’ voice was soft when he spoke. “So, the two of you were…” his voice trailed off in uncertainty. 

“Close.” Isith replied firmly. 

Farkas nodded accordingly. With a display of affection that surprised Isith, he pulled her into his arms tenderly. “If you think he will understand, you should tell him.” 

Isith, surprised by his words but not convinced, shook her head amidst the mass of muscle. “No,” she said quietly, “He would understand but this…it’s not his secret to bear.” 

Farkas released her and reached out a hand to stroke her cheek. “Whatever you think is best.” He paused and turned Isith towards Jorrvaskr. Grinning, he added, “But you do have to tell Vilkas. He’s probably worn out a good pair of boots with all the pacing he’s been doing.” 

………………………………………………………….. 

Just as Farkas had predicted, Vilkas was pacing like a lion in a cage by the time they got back to Jorrvaskr. 

His dark hair was even messier than usual, as if he had been running his hands through it while deep in troubled thoughts. Without the dark war paint to hide his eyes, the purple bags beneath them were evidence enough to suggest he had not slept. 

Isith and Farkas found him in his quarters in the barracks. Without knocking, Farkas pushed the door open and ushered Isith inside. His twin froze in mid-step when his eyes fell on the unhappy woman as she entered. 

“Isith,” the smaller twin said, her name sounding more like a breath of air than an actual word, “You’re back.” 

Isith bobbed her head in response. 

“Are you…alright?” Whether it pained him to ask the question or if he was genuinely concerned, Isith did not care. 

“I’m as fine as can be expected.” Her voice betrayed every note of bitterness she felt. 

At her side, Farkas piped up, “Skjor and I have already explained everything to her. She understands what this means.” 

Vilkas sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did this happen?” 

Isith glared at him spitefully. “I thought you might tell me that. None of the other Circle members seem to know.” 

Vilkas looked up at her and then to his brother, who was standing stoically behind her. “Give us a moment, Farkas.” 

The larger twin nodded and stepped out of the room. Isith watched him go, suddenly all too aware of Vilkas presence. 

Her shield-brother motioned for her to take a seat at the table nearby and Isith declined. During the entire trip back to Whiterun, she had replayed every possible scenario in her head where she might have been exposed to the curse. Neither Aela nor Skjor had any previous contact with her in their wolf forms and they were the only two plausible candidates other than the man in front of her. 

A week earlier, when Vilkas had lost control of his beastform, he had pinned her to the ground, a memory that was all too vivid for her liking. Blood had been drawn from both their sides and that was the _only_ way she could have been exposed. 

Accident or not, it was Vilkas fault. 

“Isith, I don’t know what –“ 

The woman raised her hand to silence him. “Don’t speak of it, Vilkas.” Her green eyes were cloudy and unreadable and they were driving the man mad. 

Vilkas ignored her. “Did I do this to you?” 

“Yes, I believe you did.” The stoniness of Isith’s heart gave way a bit when she saw the pained expression on Vilkas’ face. 

He brushed past her and went to set on his bed. With an exasperated huff, he rubbed his face in his hands. 

“I would never have wished this on you, shield-sister.” He said quietly. She assumed it was as close to an apology as she would get from him. 

With a resigned sigh of her own, Isith could no longer feel angry. The man before her was just too penitent. She went to join him on the bed, leaving plenty of space between them as she sat down. 

“I’ll learn to live with it, Vilkas _.” Will I? I’ve dealt with worse, I suppose. Dragonborn trumps werewolf any day._

“Aren’t you afraid of it?” Vilkas asked, turning his eyes to steal a glance at her. 

_Of the beast? No. I’m afraid of myself._ Unwilling to rub salt in fresh wound, she did her best to sugar-coat her words. “I’m afraid of what it’s capable of making me do. This power in the hands of a –“ 

“A killer?” Vilkas finished for her. 

Isith narrowed her eyes at him and shied away. _Last time I through a pity-party for this bastard._

She moved to stand up but he grabbed her wrist suddenly, stopping her. More gently this time, he pulled her back down, considerably closer to him this time. 

“That’s not what I meant.” He told her quietly. “It must be terrifying to leave a world of murder and then step right into this. For forcing this on you, I…it’s my responsibility.” 

The depth of sincerity in his pale eyes was enough to make Isith shudder. They had made their peace with each other but for him to understand so clearly what she felt…it was almost too much, too deep a connection for her comfort. 

Changing the subject quickly, Isith asked, “Do you think the wolf blood is why I healed so quickly? Obviously, Evrim is to thank for most of it, but if the curse was so fresh would it help too?” 

Vilkas shrugged and nodded. “Indeed, it could. The beast inside you would not want to let you go before it had a chance to fully sink its claws into you.” 

“That’s a charming metaphor.” Isith half smiled at him and found him grinning back. 

Without another word, Isith stood to leave. She wavered for a moment and tentatively reached out to clasp Vilkas’ shoulder. 

“One of these days, we’ll be even.” She said, seriousness underlying the joke. 

Vilkas nodded and stood. The movement placed him much closer to her than comfort allowed. The cool metal of his chestplate was nearly touched the fabric of her shirt, almost close enough to hint at the feel of the skin underneath. 

He looked down at her for a moment, his face unreadable and Isith couldn’t help but feel as if there something in the air around him that had been left unsaid. Nervously, she stepped back, putting several inches between them. 

“I still have to talk to Kodlak,” she muttered, sounding more unsettled than she meant to, “I’m sure he has some sort of infallible, age-old wisdom to tell me.” 

Vilkas smirked, the tilt of his lips reminding her of the looks he had given her before their unsteady truce. 

“Get to it then, whelp.” 

The playful order brought an irrepressible smile to Isith’s lips and she swiftly left the room. 


	9. Chapter 9

The Bannered Mare was relatively quiet for it to be so late in the evening. Usually, the fine establishment was bustling to the brim with boisterous, mead-swilling Nords all tired from a hard day’s work. That was not the case this particular evening as Isith glided inside quietly. 

For a moment she thought to take a minute and buy a round of the cider she so dearly loved but she quickly changed her mind. She had come here with a purpose, after all. _No need in putting it off_. 

Truthfully, ever since her transformation a few days earlier, she had been more than a little apprehensive about visiting her old friend. Brynjolf always had a way of finding out things, no matter how secretive they were. No matter how many times she reassured herself that she would face no judgment from him, it always failed to ease her nerves. 

And then there was the whole ordeal with Farkas. Isith wanted to plant her forehead in the palm of her hand right there. _No strings my arse!_ ‘ _Oh, no Isith, you’re free to do as want. Just don’t mind me while I stand over here and leer with my puppy eyes and glorious hair.’ Bah! Infuriating man!_

Doing her best not to gripe out loud, she continued through the back of the Mare and up the stairs to the room where Brynjolf was staying. _If he’s even still in town…_ She imagined he was still rather sore with her for speaking against him in front of Kodlak the other day. 

Unfortunately, when she reached his door, too lost in her own mind to think about common courtesy, she marched merrily on inside without knocking and came face to face with a sight she was undoubtedly never meant to see. 

Who exactly squealed the loudest, she would never be certain. It could have been her…but then it could have been the woman straddling Brynjolf on the bed. 

“Dear Talos! Oh, gods!” With an embarrassed flourish, Isith stumbled back out of the room and slammed the door behind her, hands over her eyes and head shaking furiously as she tried to rid the image from her mind. 

A loud string of brogue-accented curses filtered out from the room, followed by confused slurring from the _guest_. 

A few moments later, a tiny blonde Nord woman was booted roughly from the room. 

Isith couldn’t bring herself to look at the woman and turned her nose back to the corner she was hiding in. Isith winced when she heard the woman cursing her as she stumbled half-dressed down the stairs. 

Behind her, a very masculine sound of throat clearing beckoned her to turn around. 

Isith peeked over her shoulder to find Bryn glaring at her, his arms crossed over his bare chest. Thankfully, he had put some pants on. 

“By the Nine, didn’t anyone ever teach ye to knock, lass?” 

Isith finally mustered the courage to turn and face him. “I’m sorry!” she squeaked. 

“Oh, I’m sure you learned your lesson.” Brynjolf stepped aside and motioned for Isith to enter. 

Isith shook her head. “I’d rather just talk out here.” _Vilkas certainly wasn’t lying when he said werewolves have a good sense of smell. Ugh, this definitely is a curse._ Did trysts always smell so strongly? If so, she was never getting in bed with anyone again. 

“Suit yourself.” Brynjolf disappeared into his room for a few moments. When he returned, he was tugging a shirt down over his shoulders. 

Mumbling through the fabric as it slid over his head, he said something to the effect of, “You go days without dropping in and you couldn’t wait just a little bit longer?” 

Isith answered him with a shrug. 

Once he was finally dressed, Brynjolf moved to lean against a hallway dresser. 

_Well, now that all the unpleasantness is over with, down to business._ Isith placed herself in front of him, close enough so that he could her as she lowered her voice. If he noticed she was holding her breath, he didn’t show it. 

“Have you heard anything more from your contacts?” 

Brynjolf met her eyes with a worried look. “It seems the Dark Brotherhood is stepping up its efforts. The good news is that Delvin sent a letter saying that it seems like they’re spread thin.” 

Isith nodded. “There were only three assassins left when I took my leave. Without the Nightmother’s guidance it’s unlikely they would have been able to expand their numbers quickly.” 

“That might just be your saving grace it seems.” 

“Why do you think I haven’t packed my bags and high tailed out of Skyrim yet? Even if Nazir and his pet vampire do manage to scrounge up a few untrained killers, they’ll be no match for the Companions.” 

Brynjolf frowned, his auburn brows pulled together in unease. “Are you certain you want to risk other lives like that, lass?” 

Isith ran a hand through her choppy blonde strands and sighed. Her eyes revealed that she was every bit as uncertain as he was. 

“I would rather not. Those are good people at Jorrvaskr, Bryn. Skilled warriors, all of them.” 

“But they’re not used to facing assassins, is that it?” 

Isith nodded her head slowly. “The Brotherhood has to know their numbers are too few. If they ever do figure out that I’m staying at Jorrvaskr, I doubt they’ll opt for a head-on attack. It’ll be underhanded. Since it’s me they’re after, I…I’m afraid they’ll go after Farkas. Or you. You know, as a way to draw me out.” She turned her eyes away, unable to look at him. 

Brynjolf reached out a tender hand to touch her cheek but Isith pulled back, her nose wrinkling in repulsion. “You smell like a bar wench.” She whispered. 

He was flustered. “What?” As if in disbelief, he brought his wrist up to his nose and sniffed. “I do not!” 

Isith smiled and nudged him with the toe of her boot. “Yes, you do. A very blonde, very short, green-eyed bar wench.” 

At that, Brynjolf blushed. “She was easy.” 

Isith shook her head. “Easy or cheap, Bryn?” 

The thief feigned offence, scoffing dramatically. “Surely you don’t think _I_ would pay for it, lass?” 

Isith chuckled, a merry sound that made her eyes light up. “No, you wouldn’t have to.” 

Before she could move, Brynjolf reached out and grabbed her, jerking her into his arms. With a sigh, he rested his chin on top of her head as his fingers trailed gently down her back. 

“Now you smell like bar wench, too.” He said with a smile. To his dismay, despite his joke, Isith did not relax in his arms. Her body was rigid with her arms suspended awkwardly near his sides. 

Almost bitterly, Brynjolf released her and stepped away. “I forget.” He said sullenly. 

Isith nodded, brushing her hands up and down her arms uncomfortably. She wasn’t looking at him when she replied, “I know.” 

Clearing his throat, Brynjolf started to move away back towards his room. “I’ll be keeping my ear to the ground, lass. The Dark Brotherhood won’t be sneaking up on you if I can help it.” He was suddenly all business. Isith didn’t have to think too hard to know that it was his default response. 

Before she had a chance to say anything else, he was gone, the door closing and locking shut behind him. 

…………………………………………………………………… 

After returning to Jorrvaskr, Isith headed straight for the training yard. She needed to beat the tar out of something. Luckily for her, Njada Stone-arm was too happy to oblige. 

Isith was just rounding the corner to the yard when Njada called out to her. “Hey, new blood, come here.” 

_Still with the ‘new blood’ stuff? Please, be more original._ Isith stopped walking and stood where she was. Dramatically, she made a show of tilting her head up slightly and placed a hand behind her ear as if she were listening for something. 

“Hark, do I hear Njada calling?” She turned to glare at the woman, “Or is it just the resident mead-swilling idiot?” 

It might have been uncalled for but regardless, she smirked when she saw the other Nord woman bristle. 

Stone-arm didn’t need any more invitation for a challenge. Angrily, as was her style, she shot up from her place at one of the outside tables and marched over to Isith. Both Torvar and Athis had been sitting with her and they now turned to watch the show. 

“You wanna fight me, little one?” Njada barked. 

“I’m in the mood for it, sure.” That wasn’t a lie. The meeting with Brynjolf had soured Isith’s mood considerably. _Blowing off some steam will do me some good._

Njada was quick to lay the ground rules. “No armor, no weapons.” 

“Lucky for you then.” Isith snapped. She tugged away her bracers and tossed them to the ground. Without those, she was left standing without an ounce of armor on. 

Njada pulled off her own armor, which was actually most everything she was wearing. As she squared up with Isith, the smaller Nord couldn’t help but notice just how tall the woman really was. She was easily taller than Aela although quite a bit leaner. Going hand-to-hand, Isith would have strength but Njada had several more inches of reach. 

“Ready.” The woman said firmly. 

Isith nodded. “Ready.” 

Without further ado, Isith launched herself at Njada. Well, at least she _tried_ to launch herself at Njada. Just as her feet left the ground, Isith felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her waist and haul her backwards. Isith cried out and pawed at the offending set of limbs. Njada, who had braced herself for the incoming attack, relaxed and watched the development with annoyance. 

“Whoa there, Isith.” 

_Farkas!_ Upon realizing who held her, Isith stopped squirming and scowled as she waited to be put down, looking very much like a puppy that had just been pulled away from a meal. 

“Go on about your business, Njada.” Farkas looked over the top of Isith’s head as he spoke. “Isith is busy right now.” 

Njada grumbled and turned on her heel to leave. When she was gone, Farkas finally released Isith from his arms and she landed clumsily on her feet. 

She cut her eyes at him, the green irises flickering in her vexation. “I wanted to fight her.” She snapped. 

Farkas shrugged, his bulky shoulders rising in indifference. “I know you did.” 

“Then why’d you stop me?” The sharpness of her voice was strong enough to surprise her. Even now she could feel the frustration giving way to genuine anger. 

Farkas gave her a concerned look and tugged her away from the prying eyes of the other Companions and led her around to the front of Jorrvaskr. When they were out of hearing range, he explained, “It’s the beastblood. It’s twisting up your feelings all wrong.” 

Isith mellowed as she considered what he said. Her emotions had been rather sporadic the past few days. 

“Really?” 

Farkas nodded. “Yep. You’ll have to get used to it.” 

“That’s no fun at all. As if I need more temper tantrums.” 

The dark-haired Nord grinned at her. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking and stepped closer to Isith. Isith had to tilt her head up to look at him; her head barely made it to the top of his shoulders otherwise. Her werewolf senses were tingling and she noticed for the first time that he smelled of wood ash and pine. It was barely there and would have been nearly untraceable without her new abilities. Deep and masculine, she wanted to nuzzle into his chest and take a big whif of it. 

Farkas let one thumb graze along the side of her jaw, soothing her further. “I’ve been thinking of a way to help you through this.” He said quietly, so low the timbre of his voice resonated within Isith’s chest. 

When she didn’t respond, Farkas continued, “I think it would be good for you to go on hunt tonight. Run with me.” 

“As…wolves?” _Wow, that sounds strange._

Farkas nodded. “Vilkas is against it but I told him I can handle the change, especially if it’ll help you.” 

Part of her wanted to refuse out of apprehension, unwilling to give into the change again so soon, however, the rest of her ached to take him up on the offer. _Can I handle it?_ She wondered, _if Farkas is there to guide me, sure I can._

Her decision made, she nodded. 

Farkas leaned down and kissed her, his lips brushing hers in a quick yet intense peck. “We’ll leave after dinner tonight. For now, you should rest. I’ll wake you later.” He pressed one more speedy kiss to her lips and turned to go. 

…………………………………………………………………………. 

Just as Farkas promised, he came for her a few hours after dinner. Isith had taken him up on the suggestion to sleep and was stirred from her rest by a gentle hand on her side. Her eyes fluttered open and she slid out of bed, muttering incoherently about how she’d rather be sleeping. 

“You should bring a change of clothes with you to the Underforge.” Farkas whispered softly, low enough so that he would not wake any of the other sleeping Companions in the room. 

Isith had already figured as much and had a pile of garments resting by her bed side. Silently, she scooped them up and followed Farkas out of Jorrvaskr and to the edge of the Underforge. He repeated the same action that Aela had used the night Isith first turned. 

She watched him curiously as he reached out to touch the inconspicuous-looking rockface. 

Farkas noticed her eyes following his hand as he pressed in the corrected stone. “It’s this one here, you see.” Isith nodded. 

“You have to press it hard or else it won’t budge.” To illustrate, he slapped the rock roughly and sure enough, the entrance to the Underforge rumbled open. 

With the door open, both Companions stepped inside. The Underforge was silent and dark except for a single torch that was wedged in the center wall. 

Isith felt her uncertainty growing. To her right, Farkas was already undressing. He pulled the cotton shirt he was wearing over his head and tossed it to the ground, leaving the rippling muscle underneath free for Isith to ogle. Her nerves suddenly skyrocketed. 

She was suddenly less keen on going for a run than she was on just shoving the man to the ground and having her way with him then and there. Farkas, however, was having none of it. 

“You should get undressed.” 

Isith’s stomach leapt at his words. _You bet I should._ Instead, she cocked an eyebrow at him teasingly and toyed with the edge of her shirt. Farkas grinned and looked at the ground, shaking his head. With a bit of reluctance, he turned around so that she could undress in privacy. 

Isith did as she was told and stripped down until she was bare. Disappointed that he didn’t so much as peek, Isith grumbled, “You’re no fun at all.” 

With his back still to her, Farkas chuckled. He said nothing else and started to change. Isith followed his lead and her transformation came surprisingly smoothly. There was much less pain this time around, though the shift was considerably slower than Farkas’. 

By the time her thoughts were hers once more, Farkas had already completed his change. A hulking jet-black wolf greeted her when she finally rose from the ground. Farkas loped towards the back exit of the Underforge, leaving Isith to hurry after him. 

The two wolves moved impossibly fast over the plains outside of Whiterun, traveling a distance that was nearly out of sight of the city in a matter of minutes. Farkas took the lead and traveled south towards the mountains, loping over the ground with speed and grace he didn’t normally possess. Isith was happy to follow him, enjoying the way the chilly air bristled her fur. Above them, the moon was nearly full and shown down brightly over the terrain, illuminating the plains for miles. 

Eventually, the flat ground gave out and led up into the heavily wooded trees of the mountains. Snow had not fallen this close to the base of the towering mounds of earth and the ground felt comfortably cool beneath their paws. 

They must have run for miles because Isith’s breath was becoming ragged, her soot-colored sides heaving as she moved. Without thinking about it, she whimpered, an oddly soft sound for such a terrifying creature to make. Farkas slowed, glancing back at her with orange-gold eyes. He jerked his head to the west and continued running. 

Isith followed him and was relieved when they finally slowed their pace upon reaching a clearing. The trees gave way to reveal a trickling mountain stream. The soft hum of nirnroot plants filled the night air. Grateful for the rest, Isith trotted over to the water’s edge, overcome with the sudden desire to test the water. She willed herself back to her human form with little trouble and fell on her knees by the pool. With a relieved sigh, she ran her fingers through the cool water, smiling to herself at the feeling of the liquid swirling around her fingers. 

She was too engrossed in the water to notice when Farkas shifted back into his human form. A cry of surprise escaped her lips when she felt his arms go around her and force her back gently to the ground. Farkas’ mouth found hers as he lowered himself on top of her, pinning her under his weight. As she lingered in the delight of his kiss, Isith let her fingers trail over the musculature of his shoulder blades, humming in delight with every inch she covered. 

The cold night air did little to cool the heat of the man’s skin as he ground his chest against hers, the sparse coating of black hair rubbing at her skin and tickling it. Gently, almost timid in his caresses, Farkas let his lips drag down from her lips and past her chin, worrying back and forth on the skin beneath her jaw. As his lips worked, his hands did not rest. Callused fingers grazed down her side and past her hips, tickling the soft skin and muscle. Isith couldn’t help herself from pressing her hips to his thigh that was hovering above them, murmuring words of pleasure. 

Farkas groaned from above her and moved his mouth back to hers, placing his forearm against the ground above his head to steady himself. His other hand moved from her body to tangle in the short tresses of her hair. His lips began to tease hers more forcefully, sharp teeth nipping at the swollen rose-colored flesh. Isith surrendered fully to him, happy to bask in the feverish touches and the warmth that was spreading throughout. Every impassioned kiss levied from her a groan of hunger. 

Beneath the moonlight, Farkas’ eyes blazed briefly, the flicker of fiery orange glowing beneath the pale irises. A feral sound broke from his chest, alighting Isith with a new, deeper surge of desire. 

She moaned into his ear, “Farkas…” 

The wolf eased his attentions long enough to look down at her. Isith met his eyes and found herself startled by what she found there. Beyond the lust and primal hunger was something deeper…softer. _Kinder_. It was a look of unrestrained affection, genuine caring. It thrilled her. 

With a push of her strong legs, she shifted her hips into him, flipping the man onto to his back. Beneath her, Farkas writhed in his new found position. He didn’t struggle for long and his hands came to rest on the soft flesh of her bottom, squeezing and kneading. No longer hidden by the shadows of his larger form, Isith stretched up, her body illuminated by the silvery moonlight. Farkas' blue eyes drifted up, admiring the way the milky rays of light came down to caress the scarred but soft flesh. 

His attention was drawn elsewhere as Isith gyrated her hips against him, flattening the hardened length of his thick manhood under her moist curls. With no clothes to get in the way, the movement easily elicited a heady groan from the man under her and she felt the spreading ache within her lower region throb. Ever so slowly, she eased her hips forward and positioned them over the tip of his arousal. She fought back a soft cry of anticipation as she began to slide herself down. 

Farkas’ hands gripped her hips and dragged forward suddenly. He hushed her cry of startled protest with his lips and pulled her to him, drawing her head into the crook of his neck. “Not like this…” he whispered. 

Isith didn’t know whether to be disappointed or incensed. Her body was sore with need. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she asked, “ _Why_?” 

With tender hands, Farkas rolled her off of him and positioned her by his side, tugging her body to him until she finally relented and curled around him. 

“I don’t want to go too fast with you.” 

Isith muttered something incoherent and propped her head against his chest with a huff. _Too fast he says…we could have taken it slow._ The idea made her scoff, a puff of breath forcing itself out to tickle the bare flesh beside her. Isith had never taken loving slow before in her life. 

“You’re a cruel, cruel man.” Her lower lip pushed out in a pout. 

Farkas chuckled, the motion of his chest unsettling the niche Isith had made for herself. “No,” he replied with a grin, “I care for you.” 

Isith drew herself up, propping her arms and upper body against his chest so that she could look down at him. 

Her lips opened and closed, floundering, before pressing together in a thin line as she searched for the right words. “I…like it when you say that.” 

Farkas grinned at her and placed his arms behind his head so that he could look up at her contentedly. 

Isith continued, “I care for you as well, Farkas. More and more each day it seems.” He was too pleased with the notion to notice the wicked look that flashed across her face in the next second. “Can I give you a kiss at least?” She was the picture of innocence, batting her long-lashed green eyes and smiling sweetly. 

Farkas nodded happily, closing his eyes in anticipation. When the kiss came, it was _much lower_ than he expected. It was a long, tender, and painfully slow _kiss_ that he could do little to object against. His eyes flew open wide and he mumbled something that started as a protest but ended as a strangled cry of pleasure. 

When it came time to return to Jorrvaskr, the morning sun peeking just over the tops of the mountains, Isith was cheerfully licking her lips and Farkas was doing his best to stand on wobbly legs. She placed a quick kiss on his lips, all too happy to share the bitter, musky taste with him. 

Winking at him, Isith said, “Bet you won’t be able to keep up with me this time.” 

Farkas shook his head, still dizzy, and watched as she knelt to the ground and shifted. Smiling as he watched her, he soon followed suit and the two wolves hastily loped towards home, racing the rays of the rising sun. 


	10. Chapter 10

The next few days passed uneventfully at Jorrvaskr. The only thing worth noting was that Brynjolf had taken off back to Riften. Isith had spent hours pleading with her friend not to leave but in the end her words had been for naught. The thief had claimed to have decided that he could do more good back at the guild headquarters, effectively reneging on his promise to remain at Isith’s side until the storm clouds had passed. She had called him every name under the sun before he left, even tailing him as far as the stables. The auburn-haired Nord had chuckled the whole way and parted ways with her, leaving her with the promise to return when he had more information. 

Now, three days later, Isith was still spitting mad. Even Farkas could do little to calm her, though he tried multiple times per hour. Add to that the fact that she had been so distracted during a training match with Vilkas that the man had effectively wiped the floor with her. 

With both her pride and body bruised, Isith was moping in a corner, cradling a luke-warm mug of cider. Her savior came in the form of Skjor, who sat down in the seat across from her with a groan. “Ho there, sister.” He greeted her. It was an unusually warm hello from the man. 

Isith nodded at him curtly. “Skjor.” 

“You look like you need some work.” 

Isith perked up. Anything would be better than sitting around waiting for assassins to drop from the roof. “Do you have something for me?” she asked. 

The older man shrugged. “Maybe.” 

Isith raised an eyebrow at him curiously. 

The only other information he would offer up was a request to meet him near the Underforge later that night. Isith pondered the task for a moment. _A secret rendezvous plus a bad case of boredom? Color me intrigued_. With a definite nod, she agreed to meet him. 

As Skjor got up to leave, Isith spied Vilkas watching her from across the room. Ever since her midnight outing with Farkas, the smaller twin had said very little to Isith. In fact, now that she thought of it, the only contact they’d had with each other was when Vilkas had beat her to pulp in the training yard and he had seemed rather pleased to do so. At the memory of the fight, Isith raised a hand and prodded at a tender spot on her cheek bone. She winced, both from the immediate pain and from the fragile truce with the warrior across the room. 

When the twin noticed Isith was watching him, he stopped what he was doing and started towards her. A few seconds later he lowered himself into the chair Skjor had recently vacated. 

His eyes lingered on her a second too long before he asked, “What was that about?” 

“Hm, being nosy are we, Vilkas? Skjor has a job for me.” Isith sat aside the now empty mug and leaned forward to prop her elbows on her knees. 

Vilkas was obviously unsatisfied with her answer but he dropped the issue. Instead, he changed the topic to a much more personal one. 

Smirking, he asked, “How was the run with Farkas the other night?” 

_Oh, he thinks to embarrass me, then? Silly Vilkas._ She was all too happy to take the bait. She winked at him. “Strenuous.” 

The other Nord narrowed his eyes at the floor in front of him. What he was thinking, Isith couldn’t be sure. Wordlessly, he stood to go and left Isith to stare curiously after him. 

As promised, when dark rolled around, Isith headed outside to the Underforge. She was early and had to wait several long minutes for Skjor to join her. Behind him, Aela trailed, looking more chipper than usual as if she was anticipating whatever it was they had planned. 

Skjor stopped in front of Isith and motioned at the entrance. “You know how to open the door, don’t you?” 

Isith nodded and tapped her hand firmly against the rock that Farkas had pointed out days earlier. As the entrance rumbled open, the three Companions slipped inside. 

Aela was the first to speak when they were situated. “We have a bit of fun lined up if you’re interested, sister.” 

Isith crossed her arms over the black leather of her armor. “I’m listening.” 

“Have you heard of the Silver Hand?” 

“The werewolf hunters? Yes, I believe Kodlak has mentioned them in passing.” 

“Good,” Aela smirked, “There’s a group of them holed up in an old fort near Gallows Rock. We need to eliminate them.” The red-head’s eyes twinkled at the thought, giving Isith an unnerving glimpse at the beast within. 

“Slaughter them, you mean.” Isith’s brows knitted together in a scowl. “Have they harmed anyone at Jorrvaskr?” 

Aela growled at her. “Not yet,” she snapped, “Do you suppose we should wait for a reason to justify ending them?” 

Isith was not about to be intimidated so easily. “Have you told Kodlak about this little vendetta?” 

It was Skjor who answered her. “Even as Harbinger, Kodlak doesn’t just hand out orders to us, girl. We are free to eliminate problems as we discover them. It saves the Companions the trouble.” 

_Hmm, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that sort of attitude…and it usually leads to trouble._ Isith shook her head. She was uncomfortable with the whole idea. Surely, there was more to Aela’s and Skjor’s reasoning for leaving the Harbinger out of the loop. However, the logical side of her kicked in and she could certainly see why such a group posed a threat to all members of the Circle, herself included. 

Against her better judgment, she finally agreed. “Before we go,” she paused and looked both Companions over with cautious eyes, “Tell me why we are targeting this specific group of the Silver Hand.” 

Aela shrugged. “Easy. Because they’re there and unsuspecting.” 

_Liar_ . Isith wanted to call the huntress’s bluff but she remained silent. Satisfied, Skjor smiled and slapped a firm hand against her shoulder. “Good, it’s settled. You’ll leave with Aela in the morning.” 

Confused, Isith asked where he planned on going. 

“I’m leaving tonight to scout out the perimeter. Aela knows where to meet me, don’t worry.” 

_Don’t worry? Funny how people say that when what they really mean is ‘don’t ask me anymore questions’._

“Fine,” Isith turned to go, calling back over her shoulder to Aela, “I’ll meet you at the gate in the morning.” 

………………………………………………………………… 

The women said little to each other as they traveled. It did not escape Isith how tense Aela seemed. _Well, more tense than normal anyhow. Perhaps she is worried about Skjor?_ At the thought, Isith had to turn her face away so that Aela would not see her scowl. _It was foolish to go alone. Surely they have to know that? Just as it’s foolish for us to undertake such a task without telling Kodlak._ The man was Harbinger for a reason, after all. Isith had been kicking herself all morning for not speaking to the older man despite Aela’s wishes. It was too late now, of course, but she still felt uneasy with the situation. _Why did I agree to this again?_ _Ah, yes, to distract myself…because that always turns out well_. She rolled her eyes in spite of herself. 

No doubt she would catch the devil from the rest of the Circle members when she returned. Farkas would be upset. Vilkas would be livid. Kodlak would be disappointed. _One big happy family,_ she thought grumpily. 

Ahead of her, Aela stopped walking and tilted her head up to sniff the air. “We’re getting closer.” Her voice was almost a growl. 

“Thank goodness. Tell me again why we couldn’t bring horses?” 

“Because I don’t like horses.” Aela snapped her head around to glare at her, red-hair bristling. “Stop whining, you’re a wolf now. You should take pleasure in the world around you.” 

“Do you know how long it took me to pick the fur out of my teeth after I killed that one deer? Or how sore I get after I shift? My bones feel like they should belong to an old woman.” 

The huntress grumbled. “You’ll get used to it.” 

“Which? Picking the fur out of my teeth or my being sore?” 

“Be silent.” 

Her hourly dose of banter fulfilled, Isith was happy to resume the quiet walk. Aela’s definition of “closer” proved to be slightly more abstract that the other woman’s as they continued to travel until night fall. When they finally reached the old fort, the scent of flesh and death was heavy on the air. Isith could smell the live Silver Hand members that were outside on the walls. It was the underlying odor that made her weary, however. The reek of rotting wolf flesh tainted her nostrils, accompanied by the undeniable metallic smell of blood. 

When they were only a few hundred yards from the fort, Aela came to a stop, her green eyes flashing through the night as she searched the shadows. 

“Skjor is not here.” Despite the firm authority of her voice, her fear was evident. 

Isith tried her best to pick up some sign of their fellow Companion. She shook her head, unable to find anything. “Would he try and take them on alone?” She asked the question carefully, unwilling to provoke the huntress. 

“No…at least, he shouldn’t. Though if he thought they suspected his presence then he may have charged ahead.” Aela cursed the man under her breath. “We cannot wait.” The woman managed only one or two steps before Isith caught her arm and drew her back. 

“Aela, think this through,” Isith’s darker green eyes met the other woman’s lighter set pleadingly. “If Skjor really did rush ahead then they have captured him by now. They’ve already posted men along the battlements so they likely suspect a rescue attempt.” 

Aela shook Isith’s hand off roughly. “Don’t be a coward.” 

“I’m not saying we should wait any longer but we need-” 

Aela’s hands flew out to grip the collar of Isith’s armor. “The Skinner has him, you fool!” She let the woman go with a shove. 

Isith snarled out of instinct and reached her hand protectively up to her throat. “You told me this was just a group like any other. Who is the Skinner?” 

With an exasperated sigh, Aela explained, “He’s a high ranking member of the Silver Hand. He… _enjoys_ torturing the wolves he captures.” 

Isith glared at her. “All the more reason not to get caught then. We need a plan. If we can take out the men on the walls silently, we’ll be at less risk for being flanked once we’re inside. You’re damn scary Aela but these people have numbers.” 

Aela nodded in acquiescence and the women started creeping towards the fort. Both had thankfully brought their bows and after several well placed shots, the men on the battlements had fallen silent. The arrows were loosed from their bows rapidly to be embedded in the throats of the men outside. Whenever one would turn around, alerted to the sound of a body falling but not fully aware of the attack, another arrow was notched and aimed before any alarm could be raised. 

Inside, the fort was almost as cold as the mountains surrounding the stone walls. The only warmth in the building came from various torches that hung from braziers on the walls. The stone of the floor was slick with damp moss and some thick slime of unknown origins that Isith tried to ignore. More than once, one of the Companions slipped against the floor, biting back a cry so as to not alert the enemies around them. The stench permeating through the place was almost breath taking. 

“I can’t smell Skjor for all the blood around us. We’ll have to find him the hard way.” Aela whispered once they had cleared the first chamber. 

Isith responded with a solemn nod and continued into the next hallway. Most of the enemies they encountered fell quickly, too surprised to fight effectively. It was only when the women reached the prison cells that they faced any problems. Isith was maneuvering her way through the darkness when a whimper from one of the cells caught her attention. 

“Aela!” she hissed and pointed at the cage. Inside, a badly wounded werewolf was curled on the floor, its dark fur matted with blood. 

The huntress studied the creature for a moment and then shook her head regretfully. “We cannot risk it. He’s likely feral by now.” 

Isith cut her eyes at the woman. “He doesn’t look feral to me.” 

“Leave him, Isith. There are more important things at hand.” 

“He’ll die!” 

Aela scowled at her, the heat of her gaze focused on the stubborn blonde woman. “Either _you_ can kill him and put him out of his misery or we continue on.” 

Isith’s eyes glimmered with repressed fury but she eventually turned her back on the animal in the cage. “Let’s go.” _Beast or no, I cannot kill him._

It was not long after that when they finally reached the last chamber. 

“The Skinner is likely in that room, you know.” Isith warned. 

Aela glanced at her before turning her attention back to the door. “So is Skjor.” 

With a sigh, Isith readied herself and pushed open the door. Inside several members of the Silver Hand were gathered around a body in the on the floor. A particularly large bandit, one whose armor outshined all the others, was nudging the dead man’s head with his boot. The head lolled to the side and allowed Isith and Aela a glimpse at the man’s face. 

Aela almost screamed. “Skjor!” 

_Oh no, Skjor , you fool!_ Isith braced herself for the onslaught of bandits that had just noticed them. _This was a very bad idea!_

The Skinner grinned and waved his men towards the Companions. “Here’s the rescue party, fellas. Looks like they’re a little late.” 

Aela’s face twisted in rage and her eyes flashed. Her hands were quivering when she spoke. “ _I’ll rip you all pieces_!” Her weapons clattered to the ground beside her and she threw back her head, letting go a monstrous howl. Her entire body began to shake and within seconds the transformation was nearly complete. Several of the bandits began their charge, hoping to get a hit in before the beast took hold. 

Isith ran ahead to meet them in an effort to allow Aela time to finish her change. Her sword met the first man’s blade with a fierce clang of silver against steel. She slammed her heel into his hide-armored stomach and knocked him back. The move gave her time to whirl around and sweep her blades low to take the knees out from under a man who was trying to run past her. The man fell to the ground, now about a foot and a half shorter, screaming and unable to fight back when Isith plunged her sword through his chest. 

She was nearly surrounded now and out of the corner of her eye she saw Aela dart across the room to tackle the Skinner to the ground. Three bandits encircled her, taunting and swearing at her. With an outraged battle cry she launched herself at one of them, catching him off guard enough to allow her to bring his weapon down and land a lethal blow to his belly. As her swords cleared the meat, the sting of a blade slashing across her shoulders brought her to a knee. 

One of the remaining men tried to grab a handful of her hair, his grimy gloved hand slipping through the short tresses unsuccessfully. Ignoring the pain emanating from her bloody shoulder, Isith whirled around and struck the man in the groin. The blow was hard enough to knock him back against the wall and take him out of the fight for a moment. Isith scrambled to her feet in time to knock away the blade of the third attacker. His next attack was frantic and left Isith plenty of room to lodge her left-hand blade just below his collar bone. He fell gurgling to the ground. Another swing of her dual blades and the last of the bandits lay dead. 

Across the room, Aela was struggling with the Skinner, who was armed to the teeth with silver. The man seemed totally unafraid of the werewolf that was circling him. Winded, Isith gathered her breath before joining the fray. She let her two swords drop to the ground and pulled her bow from its place on her back. Notching a viciously barbed arrow, she aimed down the tip at the Skinner. The man was too preoccupied to notice the weapon trained on him. When the wolf had stepped out the way long enough for Isith to take the shot, she let the arrow go. With a howl, the Skinner pawed a hand at the fletching that was suddenly embedded in his shoulder. 

Aela took the opportunity to tackle him to the ground. With a savage growl, her wide jaws locked around the bandit’s throat, hanging open just long enough to allow the man to feel utter terror just once before he died. The sickening crunch of bone and the tear of flesh filled the room, accompanied by the blood-soaked cries as the Skinner perished. 

Isith ignored the scene before her and ran over to Skjor’s body. He had been badly beaten either before or after his death; the thought infuriated Isith beyond words. _He deserved better_. A few moments later, a newly human Aela joined Isith at Skjor’s side. She was tugging at the remnants of her armor as she knelt down beside her deceased friend. 

Isith backed away respectfully and watched as Aela caressed the dead warrior’s face. Her green eyes cloudy with tears, she whispered something too quiet for Isith to make out. The huntress blinked them back before any could fall. The one thing she could not hide was the edge of sorrow in her voice when she commanded Isith to return to Jorrvaskr. 

“Tell Kodlak what has happened.” 

Isith nodded silently and, with one last look at the fallen Companion, she left Gallows Rock behind. 


	11. Chapter 11

It was nearly noon when she reached Jorrvaskr the next day. The remaining three Circle members were all seated around one side of the main table when Isith stumbled inside, breathing hard and dizzy from blood loss. The blood that had seeped from the deep slash across her back had dripped down to stain the armor of her left arm and was crusty around her wrist and fingers. Despite the wound, which was starting to smell like it was getting infected, Isith set towards Kodlak with a grim face. 

The old man watched her silently as she approached, a knowing look on his face as if he was already aware of what had transpired. As she got closer, Farkas leapt up and started towards her but Isith shook her head, warning him away. The large Nord looked at her, confused, but returned to his seat. Even Vilkas remained silent as he watched her somber approach. 

Isith reached out her good arm and clasped the Harbinger on the shoulder. “I need to speak with you, Kodlak.” 

The man’s pale eyes narrowed wearily and he nodded. He abandoned the lunch he had been eating and followed Isith into the depths of Jorrvaskr, leaving the twins to stare curiously after them. 

When they reached Kodlak’s office, the old man shut the door and turned to look Isith, who had sunk down into one of his chairs with a heavy sigh. “What has happened, young one? Where are Aela and Skjor?” The man’s voice was not unkind as he spoke. 

Isith planted her face in her hands, massaging the gritty skin around her eyes. “Skjor is dead, Kodlak. I’ve been a fool.” 

At the mention of Skjor’s death, Kodlak drew in a great intake of air and held it for a moment as the news sunk in. 

“What of Aela?” 

“She remained with Skjor’s body at Gallows Rock. I’ve returned to tell you the news.” 

The Harbinger sat down in the seat across from her and reached out to lay a fatherly hand over her wrist. “How did this happen?” 

“I was asked by Aela and Skjor to help them eliminate a group of Silver Hand bandits holed up at the old fort at Gallows Rock. As it turned out, a man known as the Skinner was there. He killed Skjor before Aela and I could reach him.” Isith took a deep breath and looked woefully at the man. “I should have come to you, Kodlak. I knew this was foolish from the start. Perhaps, if I had…Skjor might not-” 

Kodlak raised a hand to silence her. “You’re already holding enough deaths over your head, girl, don’t let Skjor’s linger as well. He and Aela embraced the curse to the point of recklessness; this was bound to happen sooner or later.” Isith frowned at him; she didn’t feel any better about it. Kodlak continued, “However, if you are intent on making up for your mistakes then perhaps there is something you can do for me.” 

Isith watched him intently. “Name it.” She said. 

“Do you know how the curse originated within the Companions?” 

The woman in front of him shook her head. 

Leaning back in his chair, Kodlak crossed his arms and sighed deeply. His blue eyes flashed to her as he proceeded to explain. “It was long ago when one of my predecessors sought to increase his power so that he could crush the enemies before him. To do so, he requested the aid of an old and powerful coven of witches within Glenmoril Cave. They granted it to him, of course, but not before striking a deal.” 

Isith scoffed, “One that didn’t work in his favor I imagine.” 

“Indeed,” the Harbinger leaned towards her once again, “He was tricked by the witches and since that day we’ve had to live with the blood of the beast inside of us. As you can see, this presents quite a problem for those of wishing to enter Sovngarde when we die.” 

The woman in front of him made an odd sound in the back of her throat, earning her a disapproving stare from the old warrior. Isith smiled apologetically and told him, “I owe my soul to so many gods, Kodlak, Hircine will just have to wait in line.” 

Kodlak chuckled, shaking his head so that his frizzled silver hair bounced around his face. “Then I suppose you know better than most that such is the price for power. When you are ready, you may leave. Bring me those witches’ heads.” 

Isith stood and extended a hand to the man in front of her. He took it and she hauled him up, gripping his shoulder and squeezing it in camaraderie. “I’d be more than happy to go pay these witches a visit, Kodlak. You’ve shown me more understanding and kindness than I deserve. I don’t remember my father but I like to think he might have been a little like you.” 

Kodlak grinned, more flattered than he appeared, and said, “Ha! Now you sound like Vilkas, girl. Go and rest for the night. And for Ysgramor’s sake, have that injury looked at. It smells.” Laughing once again at the face she made, he escorted her from his office and bid her goodnight. 

Isith rolled her wounded shoulder sorely as she walked away. She grimaced and mumbled to herself about keeping her armor in better repair. 

“They have special places for people who talk to themselves, sister.” 

Isith flinched and whirled around to find Vilkas leaning smugly up against the wall. The Nord eyed her strangely, seemingly concerned, which in itself was enough to make Isith suspicious. 

Isith took several steps backward, wishing desperately that she could just go straight to her room and wash up. 

“I didn’t see you there, Vilkas,” she muttered, “Come to tear me a new one?” 

The warrior shook his head. “I overheard what happened to Skjor. It was foolish of all of you.” 

Isith bristled visibly at the remark and scowled. “Ah, you must have missed the part where I explained that to Kodlak.” 

Vilkas met her stare with glower of his own, his dark brows pulling together as his eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t finished.” 

Isith huffed and rolled her eyes. “Imagine that…” 

With a push, Vilkas removed himself from the place he was propped against and covered the distance between them in just few strides. “ _I was going to say_ ,” his voice was almost a growl, “that what happened was not _your_ fault. Aela and Skjor had no business pulling you into their vendetta. Look what has happened as a result! Skjor is dead!” His hand swept across the air to make the point clear. Instantly, however, his eyes softened and reached that same hand gently to touch her shoulder, saying, “And you’re wounded.” There was tenderness in his voice that unnerved Isith and she stepped away from him, frowning. 

Apprehensive from his uncharacteristic attention, she asked, “Where is Farkas?” 

The smitten look faded as quickly as it had appeared and Vilkas clenched his hand and drew it back to place it instead on the hilt of his sword. “He went to Arcadia’s to fetch some healing tonics for you.” 

Isith felt her cheeks warming at the thought, quite pleased with the knowledge that he had done such a thing without being asked. Grinning sheepishly, she asked to be sure, “He did?” _Then again, it’s Farkas, of course he did._

Vilkas rolled his eyes and sighed as he said, “Yes, he did,” He batted one eye shut and Isith drew back. _Did Vilkas just wink at me?_ _Vilkas?_ Surely, she imagined it. As it turned out, she did not and the man leaned forward, so close she felt his lips graze her hair, and whispered in her ear, “But I’ve done one better.” 

With a gentle but hurried touch he guided her toward the wash room. Isith reluctantly allowed him to lead her, thinking to herself the whole time: _I dislike flirty Vilkas immensely. He is not to be trusted_. 

When they reached the windowless little room, Vilkas pushed open the door to reveal a steaming tub of water, complete with soap and a towel at the side. 

Isith could hardly contain her excitement and squealed. She had the fleeting desire to throw her arms around the Nord and thank him but she managed with some difficulty to restrain herself. It _was_ Vilkas after all. The warrior stood beside her, one eyebrow perked up as he watched her reaction with a smirk. 

“This is my official peace offering.” He said with a smile. 

Isith nodded excited and ran over to the tub, wafting the hot steam toward her. She paused suddenly and turned back to him. _Ha! I wasn’t born yesterday after all._ Her voice was weary as she said, “There’s acid in it, isn’t there?” 

Vilkas cracked a smile and folded his arms across his chest. “Would I do that?” 

Isith’s lips pursed to the side and she shook her head. “No, that’s not your style, I guess.” She cut her eyes at him. “But it seems you _would_ stand there and leer at me while I undress. Now, thank you and shoo.” She waved her hands at him and the Nord retreated with one final pleased glance her way. Once the door was securely locked so that _no one_ could interrupt the happy moments to come, Isith was all too happy to peel away the layers of blood soaked armor. Her bruised and blistered skin prickled as the warm air caressed it and without further ado, Isith lowered herself gratefully into the hot bath. 

…………………………………………………………….. 

When she finally got out of the tub, totally lacking in any more blood or dirt, she found Farkas waiting impatiently outside the door. In his hands was a bundle of folded clothes. His face was more than a little annoyed, eyes squinting and brows bunched together like a petulant child. Towards the end of Isith’s bath, he had knocked on the door and asked her to let him in. When she blatantly refused on the grounds of peace and quiet, he had grumbled so that she could hear his displeasure through the door. He announced, sounding a tad bit cranky, that he had a change of clothes waiting on her. 

When she decided she was as clean as she could possibly get, she wrapped herself in a towel and stuck her head out of the door long enough to snatch the clothes from his hands. As she moved to shut the door, Farkas shot his hand out to stop her. Frowning, he held up a shiny bottle full of sloshing red liquid. The healing potion shimmered faintly in the dim light of the hallway, almost mesmerizing if one looked at it for too long. Isith conceded, having nearly forgotten about the ache in her shoulder blades, and let him inside. 

“What has you in such a mood, darling?” 

“Vilkas.” Pouting did not suit such a large and imposing man but Farkas gave it his best shot anyway. 

Isith chuckled to herself. “I’m still not convinced there wasn’t something in the water. I’ll probably develop a case of boils within the hour.” Farkas remained unhappy and sat with a huff on one of the benches near the tub. He pointed to the floor and demanded that she sit. Isith obliged and placed herself criss-cross between the space of his knees so that he could have access to the wound across her shoulder blades. 

Farkas said nothing else as he uncorked the vial and began to dab the liquid over the ruptured skin. The sting of the poultice was icy and sharp, causing the skin around it to prickle with goosebumps. Soon after the initial contact, however, the cold sting gave way to calming warmth that spread throughout her entire back, distracting her from the pain of having Farkas poke and prod the wound. 

Isith remained silent in front of him and let her hand wander over to caress his ankle. Unthinking, she let her fingers trail up and down the skin of his lower calf as far as the fabric of his cotton pants would allow her access. She felt as distant as he did as she let her mind wander to his brother. More than once since they killed that group of bandits Vilkas had shown her more attention than was probably appropriate. Isith had chalked it up to typical sibling jealousy and thought nothing of it. It was more about Farkas than it was about her. _Or so I thought. But for it to bother Farkas so bad…perhaps there is more to it._ Her one comfort was that, no matter how prickly the smaller twin was toward her, he was undeniably loyal to his brother. There was an understanding between the twins that she could not begin to fathom and likely never would; the thought hardly bothered her. What _did_ bother her was the realization that she might be driving a wedge between them. 

“Farkas?” 

The man grunted behind her but said nothing so she continued, “Would you have me speak to your brother?” 

Farkas sighed heavily, his breath ruffling the hair on her head, and pushed the stopper back into the empty bottle. “No.” 

Her shoulders tingling from the healing potion, Isith scooted around to face him. She laid her head against his knee and allowed her eyes to flutter shut, relaxing for just a moment in the serenity she felt from being near him. Farkas gave her a small smile despite his dour mood and leaned down to place a kiss on the top of her head. 

He said, “He doesn’t mean anything by it. I think it may be his way of not hating you. I don’t know…” 

“I think I liked it better when he wanted to kill me.” Isith replied with a pout. 

Farkas chuckled and Isith’s head slipped from his knee. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find some way to anger him sooner or later.” 

“I hope so. Maybe the next bath he fixes for me he’ll use to try to drown me.” 

Isith pulled herself up from the floor and moved to set beside Farkas on the bench. With gentle fingers she reached up to brush a stray lock of coal-colored hair behind his ear. “In all seriousness, Farkas,” she said quietly, “You heard about Skjor, yes?” 

Farkas nodded silently. “Would you be angry with me if I called you ‘icebrain’ for going along with them?” 

Isith pursed her lips and knew he was right. She shook her head. 

A pair of pale eyes found hers, their icy depths warm with genuine concern. “It could have been you who got killed.” His tone was low and weary. 

Isith looked away to focus instead on the tub of murky water. “Maybe,” she said solemnly, “but I’m here, alive and well, so I guess we’ll never know.” 

A cry of surprise escaped her lips when Farkas’ callused hands gripped her face suddenly and pulled her lips to his. The kiss was fierce and quick and so full of unspoken emotion that Isith was overwhelmed with the urge to cry. Farkas did not release her, pressing his forehead to hers, his fingers pressing in almost painfully. 

“You’re not allowed to die, you hear me?” The huskiness in his voice and the strength of his words was enough to send a pulse of heat straight through Isith to her core. 

She managed to crack a disbelieving smile and said, “Oh, I don’t know, Farkas. I’m the Dragonborn and a werewolf. Plus, I have a guild of angry assassins bent on killing me…it’s got to happen sooner or later.” 

The Nord didn’t like her answer and pressed his lips to hers once more, taking her bottom lip in between his teeth before releasing it with an audible _suck_. “That’s not good enough.” His hands were all over her suddenly, skimming across the bare skin of her arms and down to the soft flesh of her thighs. Isith groaned…she _needed_ this man body and soul. Upon hearing her pleasured sound, Farkas tugged her into his lap, snatching the cotton towel from around her as he did so and leaving her entirely exposed before him. She straddled him, balancing her weight over his legs and holding onto his shoulders for support. He was so much larger than her that the tips of her toes barely skimmed the floor below. 

“You’re too beautiful to die,” he growled through clenched teeth, nipping roughly at her ear. 

Isith bit back another loud sigh and somehow found her voice long enough to reply, “And you’re too smart to speak such nonsense.” 

With feverish hands, she clawed at the strings of his leather vest until they loosened and she was able to tear it away and let her fingers slip under the fabric of his shirt. Farkas let go with a groan of his own as her nails scraped softly over the contours of his chest. One hand gripped tightly around her waist to anchor her while he tugged the shirt off with the other. Isith’s eyes grew wide, dark with a lustful hunger, as she let her gaze travel over him. The sight of the bare skin, scarred and weathered, was too much, drove her too mad, and she bucked her hips just once against him. 

She pleaded with him, “By the gods, Farkas, don’t make me wait any longer.” The uncertainty and the ability to stop her as he had the other night was long since gone and Farkas growled into the nape of her neck, responding with the same desire she felt burning within her. Two long, thick fingers slipped to the damp patch between her legs and toyed with the curls there. Isith pressed her lips to his in an effort to stifle the cry of anticipation. His mouth grinned against hers and, as though he needed no further invitation, he slowly began to push his fingers into her. Isith buried her face in his shoulder, gripping his arms for dear life as she began to pant. She had been with men whose entire manhood had been smaller than the two fingers with her now. With his thumb, Farkas gently circled the sensitive button and it earned him a painful nip of pleasure against his throat. 

His fingers alone, however, were not enough and she desperately begged for more. Even if she had been begging for her life, she could not have been any more sincere. Farkas said something to her but it was too strangled from his own muffled growling for her to understand. He held her against him as he slid from the bench onto the floor, leaning her back carefully until she rested flat on the ground. The only thing stopping them as he positioned himself over her was the fabric wall of his pants. In frustration, Isith snaked her hand down to pull furiously at the laces. The attention of her hand so near his length caused Farkas to buck his hips into her. 

“Damn it, Farkas! Get these blasted pants off!” She snarled. Farkas leaned back so that he was on his knees and began to untie the laces. The knot had just come undone when the moment was shattered to a thousand little pieces by a knock at the door. 

Both lovers turned quickly to glare furiously at the interruption. There was another knock and then Tilma’s voice shouted through the door, “Are you done in there, my girl? One of your fellows has asked to bathe and I need to empty the tub.” 

If the old woman had dumped a bucket of cold water on her, Isith could not have been any more furious. She opened her mouth to bark out a biting reply when Farkas’ hand pressed over her lips. He was shaking his head. Though his eyes were hidden behind a tousled screen of black hair, his disappointment was more evident from the quickly receding bulge in his pants. In response, Isith bit down hard on the offending hand, causing him grunt and fall backward, shaking the wounded fingers to alleviate the pain. 

Once again in control of her emotions, Isith called out in her sweetest pitched voice, “Just a moment, Tilma. I’m dressing now.” 

Farkas grumbled low enough so that the maid’s failing hearing could not detect him and stood, snatching his shirt up from its place on the floor. A few moments later, both of them were fully dressed and Isith went to open the door. She smiled sweetly at the old maid, whose milky eyes widened as Farkas appeared from behind the door. Tilma’s hand flew to her mouth to cover the “O” of shock that was quickly forming. 

“I can change the water later. You two darlings…continue.” She turned to scurry away when Isith grabbed her wrist gently. 

Shaking her head, she told the woman to go ahead and take care of the tub. Tilma was most apologetic, softening even the hard glare Farkas was giving her, and she scooted by. As she closed the door behind her, Isith could have sworn she heard the woman mumble that she, too, had been young once. 

An awkward silence hung between them, made worse by the intimacy of the situation they had just been in. With a sigh, Isith glanced up at Farkas and patted his cheek with her hand. “You know, they say the longer the wait, the sweeter the kiss.” 

Farkas looked at her skeptically. “And do you believe that?” he asked, his muscular arms crossing stubbornly over his chest. 

Isith’s reply was quick. “Oblivion no!” Farkas chuckled and began to back away toward his own room, leaving Isith to stare longingly after him. “Kodlak is sending me on quest tomorrow,” she called after him, “I may be gone a few days.” 

Farkas paused long enough to nod but did not approach her again. “Remember what I said about dying.” He winked at her before disappearing around a corner. Isith stood there for a long moment, shaking her head and laughing. _I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, big guy. The same goes for you._


	12. Chapter 12

Glenmoril Cave was, quite frankly, in the ass-end of nowhere. As fast and steady as Shadowmere was, he could do little to travel any faster in the heavy winter rains that pervaded the southern lands of Skyrim. Falkreath was a dismal place, full of thatched-roof houses and head stones. Thick forests of towering pines blurred the landscape around the settlement for miles, the shadows created from the dark needles only serving to lend an eerie air about the entire place. As she rode along, Shadowmere plodding tirelessly over the damp earth, Isith could not help but wish for the open plains of Whiterun or the golden hardwoods of Riften. She loathed Falkreath with every fiber of her being. It was too close, held too many memories, of her darker past. Under normal circumstances she would have been weary to venture so close to the location of her old sanctuary. Shadowmere, however, seemed eager to revisit the primordial pit he had spawned from several months earlier. 

Try as she might, Isith could do little to persuade the enormous stallion from trotting off into the woods every few yards as he attempted to guide her back to the Falkreath Sanctuary. In frustration, Isith snapped her reins against his thick black neck after he made several attempt to veer from the road. In response, the big horse made a show of himself by crow-hopping and side-stepping all along the road. She was nearly unseated and scolded Shadowmere out loud. 

_What has gotten into him, s_ he thought, her senses leery of the distraction the horse was making, _Indeed, the closer we get to the sanctuary the more he fusses! No oats for you, Shadowmere. It’s as though he senses something I cannot…it must be this damnable Hold! Why couldn’t the Glenmoril Witches pick somewhere sunny and warm?_

Shadowmere finally calmed down when Isith proved that she would not tolerate such behavior, though he did not seem happy about it. His nostrils flared and his ears stayed plastered against his head, angled back sharply to show his displeasure. Every time Isith would tug at the reins, he would let out an annoyed snort before following his master’s lead. 

The traveling went like this all the way past the Falkreath settlement and up into the mountains. Both horse and rider grew more and more uneasy as they progressed; the bitter wind carried on it whispers that should not have been there. More than once, Isith could have sworn she heard the cackle of maniacal laughter over the howling wind and the baleful rumble of thunder. _This is…unnatural. I am not alone out here._ Part of her wanted desperately to retreat into the corners of her mind and let day-dreams of Farkas soothe her dour thoughts. She even tried finding solace in the thunder, imagining it’s distant but detectable rumbling to be his laughter. 

For the first time that day, she smiled. With everyday that passed, she grew more and more attached to the hulking warrior. Never before had she cared for a man the way she found herself feeling for him. Even with Brynjolf, the physical side of their relationship was purely carnal. She loved the auburn-haired man as her best friend. _Even if he did up and desert me!_ But Farkas…the ache she felt for him was enough to cause physical pain within her chest. _And other places_ , she thought with a smirk. 

Despite the temptation in letting her mind wander, her experience as a warrior kept her from drifting too long in her reverie and her instincts kept her alert to the danger she knew had to be around her. 

Another hour of mountain climbing and Shadowmere stopped dead in his tracks. The supernatural animal seemed just as alarmed by the sight before them as his rider did. The green mossy ground gave way abruptly to dead grey foliage and stone. What few trees were left in front of the cave were long since dead, their bark charred and flaking. Sacrificial animal bones were strung high in the dead branches and splayed out on stakes in the ground to warn passersby of the danger that lurked beyond the mouth of Glenmoril. Even the air, which had formerly smelled of pine and rain, was overpowered with the stench of sulfur. Isith wrinkled her nose in disgust and dismounted. Unhitching her weapons from their tethers on the saddle, she armed herself until she could carry no more. A dagger went in her boot, her dual scimitars rested at her sides, and her faithful Nightingale bow was strung over her back. 

Shadowmere stretched his head around to nudge her arm; she supposed it was his way of warning her to be careful. Isith smiled at him and stroked his black velvet nose with gentle fingers. “If you see two figures come running out of there, trample the second one because the first one’s going to be me.” 

The horse whickered and tossed his head in the air. Petting him once more, she laughed quietly, “Nice to know you’ve got my back.” With that, she left her horse there as she proceeded into the cave. 

The first of the witches came into view just around the first turn. The hagraven was cawing to herself, its voice a dreadful mix of bird and crone. Not for the first time in her life, Isith was grateful for her stealth skills as she notched a poison arrow and aimed for the heart of the creature. A whispered _whoosh_ and then the sound of the shaft burying deep into the wrinkled flesh let Isith know for certain the arrow had found its mark. The hagraven made very little noise as it died, much to the Companion’s relief. 

As she approached the withered corpse, which smelt of dead birds and blood, Isith was unnerved by the appearance of the woman-beast. She had fought hagravens before but these were _different_ …older, perhaps, but the aura around the body was undeniably evil. Her mind kept churning the same question over and over: _What sort of fool makes a deal with such creatures?_

The stench of the witch combined with the next task at hand made Isith queasy. She unsheathed one of her swords and knelt down to decapitate the body. The head severed easily and Isith picked it up delicately, holding it away from her body, and dropped it into a burlap sack she had brought with her. 

“One down…” she whispered and pushed forward into the cavern. 

The Glenmoril Witches proved to be more solitary than she had first assumed; each was in its own wing of the cave, their tasks separate from each other. The next two witches fell to Isith’s bow with little trouble. She took their heads as she found them, never pausing long enough to risk detection. As she crept up on the forth witch, she made the novice mistake of knocking over a mortar and pestle as she moved to line up her shot. The hagraven whirled around to face her, its twisted features contorted in a snarl. 

Beady black eyes, similar to a crow’s, flashed angrily in her direction. The creature screeched at Isith when it finally found her in the darkness. 

Isith had never heard a hagraven speak before and when the witch called out to her, she found the sound terrifying and hollow. 

“So, the wolves return!” 

Gathering her nerve, Isith stepped forward from the shadows. _Nothing like a quick one-liner to bolster the nerves!_ Isith found her lips twitching upward in a smirk and she, ever-so-politely, said, “With all due respect, ma’am, I need to borrow your head.” 

“Beast!” the hagraven shrieked, “You might have killed my sisters but your quest ends here!” In the blink of an eye, a fireball hit Isith square in the chest, propelling her backwards against a wall. She landed with a thud, less concerned about the pain than she was about putting out the flames on her armor. Involuntarily, a hand went to her eyebrows to make sure they had not been singed off. Relieved that her looks were still intact, she stood and drew her swords. 

Another spell was tossed her way and she narrowly evaded it. The witch proved to be exceedingly difficult to reach and Isith was quickly running out of patience. 

The beast within her raged to take control and she snarled, “I’ll have your head, hag!” 

The dark green irises of her eyes flashed fiery yellow and the hagraven cackled in delight, and threw its head back so that long oily locks of hair fell limply over its shoulders. With a ferocious growl, Isith lunged forward and knocked the creature off its feet. The witch shrieked and threw its feathered arms out to brace itself. Much like the bones of birds, the hagraven’s skeleton was brittle and one of its wrists snapped on impact. 

Isith skidded to a stop just beyond the fallen creature and whirled about to face it once more. To her surprise the hagraven was already back on its feet. As Isith turned, a long taloned hand swept across her face, the razor-sharp claws ripping through the flesh on her right side, gouging into her brow and cheek bones. Isith howled and reeled backwards, her hands flying to her face frantically to assess the damage. 

“Gods, my face!” Her wail was an empty and painful sound and even the hagraven stopped to admire the damage. The right side of Isith’s face was very near ruined. Five jagged cuts stretched from her hairline to the bridge of her nose and as far down as the right corner of her mouth. The hair of her right eyebrow had been cut clean through while another cut’s damage narrowly missed claiming her eye as well. The freckled flesh of her cheeks was torn with two more jagged gouges. The talon on the witch’s smallest finger had sliced into the bone of her jaw. 

Isith trembled against the ground, willing herself to resume the fight but the knowledge that her face – the once pretty and angelic visage that had captivated so many – was ruined…it was enough to drive her wits to the brink of madness. Instinct failed her at that moment as desecrated pride and vanity showered over her. Another mournful cry erupted from her body and she scrambled back desperately to put more distance between her and the Glenmoril Witch. 

The hagraven made a strange cooing sound as she admired her work, her greasy feathers ruffling in approval. 

Isith hardly noticed when the creature suddenly fell silent. An odd gurgling sound, not so different from a stream bubbling over pebbles, came from the hagraven suddenly. The sickening noise was drowned out by one even more horrifying. A devilish giggle invaded the air around the dying witch. 

Through bloody fingers, Isith peered out to try and make sense of what was happening. The giggle…she had heard it many times before. There had been a time when she had reveled in it and the dark promises it made to her…promises of revenge against Astrid and the family of assassins that had sent her into a trap. 

Another bout of mad snickering rang in Isith’s ears as she watched a blade saw through the hagraven’s neck from behind. Ornate jester’s gloves were tangled in the matted hair of the creature and tugged this way and that as the dagger cut through tendon, muscle, and bone. 

The head was torn ruthlessly from the creatures shoulders and the frail body tumbled limply to the side. A figure clad entirely in the bright colors of fool’s clothing stepped forward and knelt down to look Isith in the eyes. Crazed brown eyes watched her with interest. Terrified green eyes stared back in fear. 

Isith’s breath was ragged. As she opened her mouth to speak, tangy blood seeped from her marred skin and filtered into her mouth. She choked, “ _Cicero_?!” 

The jester-assassin squealed in delight and clapped his hands together, forgetting the severed head altogether and letting it fall to the ground. “The Listener remembers! Cicero is so happy, he could hug her!” A gloved finger poked at her wounded cheek, “But he’d get blood all over himself and he doesn’t want that!” Cicero was, in fact, already bathed in the deep red liquid. However, to a madman the fact was probably irrelevant. 

_Oh, gods, no, no, no! This cannot be happening! My face…Cicero…it **cannot** end like this!_

Isith stared back at him, utterly dumbfounded. She did not know whether to run for her life or wait and accept the end gracefully. _How? Why?_

The insane Imperial dove his hands into his satchel without warning and rummaged around until he whipped out a little vial of red healing liquid. 

“The Listener should paste her face back together now. It looks like jig-saw puzzle made of meat!” Cicero’s eyes grew wide and he snatched the vial from Isith’s grasp suddenly. “Ooooh! Doesn’t that sound like fun? Perhaps the Listener will let heroic Cicero do the honors?” 

Isith snarled and grabbed the bottle away, dumping the contents into her palms and spreading it gratefully over her face. The Keeper continued to gaze at her intently as the magic worked at the skin. The cuts healed to the point that they no longer bled but the gashes remained. With horror she had not known for a long time, she realized she would carry the scars for the rest of her life. 

A fit of anger took her and Isith hurled the empty vial against the far wall, the red-tinted glass shattering into hundreds of pieces. It was an odd feeling, knowing that her own death could be staring down at her now, that all the deeds she had done in her past faded away to linger in the back of her mind, due simply to the knowledge that the beauty she had once possessed had been taken away in an instant. Vanity was proving to affect her more strongly than fear or regret. She _loathed_ herself for it. 

Cicero frowned. “The Listener is angry that she isn’t beautiful anymore.” 

“Be silent, Cicero!” Isith growled through clenched teeth. 

“Cicero thinks that she is still pretty. Like a deadly blade that has seen many battles and has the nicks and dents to prove it!” With surprising strength he reached out and hauled her up off her feet. “It matters not!” he giggled, “Cicero has finally found his Listener!” 

Isith blinked her eyes at him in disbelief. “Are you going to kill me, Cicero?” 

The madman gaped at her, a full range of emotions flashing across his features all at once. Shock. Offence. Sadness. Disappointment. 

“Cicero would never! He owes the Listener his life! She spared him and so he will do the same for her. Although he should at least cut off her little finger for abandoning him with those horrid people! The Redguard does not find Cicero charming at all and the teeny vampire is always _hungry_!” The Keeper threw his hands to his neck for emphasis. “No, he will not kill you but he does want you to know that he was quite cross when you left him high and dry.” 

The former Listener was struggling to comprehend everything and for a long while she just stood there and looked at Cicero. The jester quickly tired of standing still in the silence and he leapt back and ran off several yards. He hurried back and threw something at Isith. The object landed with a thud in the dirt and Isith looked down to see the final Glenmoril Witch’s head at her feet. 

“Perhaps this will cheer the Listener up! Or perhaps she would like a dance instead? Cicero will dance for her if she does not like his gift!” 

“No, no, Cicero…err, this is lovely. You’ve saved me the trouble.” Isith held her breath as she stuffed the last two heads into her burlap sack. That made five which meant that all of the witches were dead. _I need to return to Kodlak but_ …she glanced at Cicero, still unsure of why he had sought her out now of all times. 

“Why have you come here, Cicero?” She winced as she spoke, the movement of her jaw causing the wounds to burn with pain. 

The Keeper giggled and tapped a finger to his temple. “Because Cicero is an evil genius! He knew the Listener would return to her old home sooner or later. He left the fools at Dawnstar behind to wait for her here!” He kicked his heels out cheerfully in an odd sort of dance. “And here she is! He has found her!” 

“You were waiting for me?” 

“Yes, yes, yeeessss! Cicero watched the roads every day! When he saw the Listener’s great black horse approaching, he nearly screamed with joy! Tell me, how is the filthy beast, Listener?” 

Isith sighed, “Cicero…” 

The madman shrugged nonchalantly. “Just curious. Cicero likes his eyes. _He_ wants red eyes.” At that, the Imperial stuck his bottom lip out and pouted. 

Isith started to pinch the bridge of her nose but remember the cuts there so she clenched her fists instead, grinding her nails into her palms. One question was still plaguing her mind. “Have you told the others that you were coming here, Cicero?” 

“Absolutely not!” the assassin shrieked, “He does not wish to see his Listener dead! The Nightmother needs her! No, Cicero came here to warn the Listener that the others are planning something.” 

Isith’s eyes snapped to full attention at the assassin’s words. “What are they planning?” 

“They have discovered where she has been staying all this time. Jorrvas? Jorrascal? Jorr…oh, something or another!” 

Her voice was hoarse as she cried, “Jorrvaskr!” She was already moving toward the exit, scooping the bag of heads up as she went. Cicero hurried after her, prancing about like a show pony. 

“The Redguard was bosom buddies with someone in a group called the Silver Fingers. They told him of a massacre near –“ 

Isith finished the sentence for him, “Gallows Rock.” 

“Hehe, yes! Wonderful name! The man was a survivor of some recent bloodshed there and came to the grumpy Redguard seeking revenge on two women who cut his friends to ribbons. Cicero was there! The man’s description of the Listener was very accurate. Even Cicero knew who he was talking about!” 

_Survivor? Damn it all!_ She fought the urge to slam her fist into the wall and instead she picked up her pace. Cicero trotted after her, scowling. “Wait, Listener! There is more!” 

A pair of outraged green eyes flashed to him and dared him to deliver more bad news. The fool continued without a thought. “The Redguard and the vampire child agreed to help the Silver Fingers man with his revenge. They sent several new assassins – which are all terribly unskilled, by the way, just so the Listener knows – to help the Silver Fingers group attack the Listener’s new home. It is a good thing the Listener is not there or else-“ 

The Keeper’s words were cut off as Isith’s gloved hand whipped out suddenly and closed around his throat. “ _What?!_ ” She snarled, backing the jester up against the wall. Her eyes flashed orange, the rage within building at an alarming speed. Seeing the animal within flash underneath the dried crimson blood of the Listener’s face was an unnerving sight even for the mad Imperial. 

Cicero gulped and nodded his head as best he could. “They are on their way now, Listener!” he choked. 

Isith released him and stepped away, her hands running feverishly through her hair, ignoring the jerk and pull of the matted tangles. 

“I have to get back.” She was talking more to herself than the assassin. 

“Cicero will help the Listener!” he said earnestly, “These fools are ruining the Nightmother’s plans!” 

_Damn the sodding Nightmother!_ She took a deep breath. _But…I will not turn away aid when it lays itself at my feet._

“Cicero,” she snapped, “Your Listener wants you to return to the Dawnstar Sanctuary with haste. Watch these… _traitors_ carefully and when you discover their next move, do me a favor and warn me.” Her voice took on a tone of authority that it had not possessed for some time. In Cicero’s eyes, she was the Listener again. He nodded joyfully. 

“Of course! Cicero will watch them like a sabre cat hunting deer! It will be such fun!” He giggled and jumped around excitedly. 

“You cannot tell them that you have found me, Cicero. Tell them nothing of what we’ve spoken about today.” 

“Never, dear Listener. I will find out what they are planning and then you and I will turn the tables on them! It will be _magnificent_!” He was nearly growling as he spoke, his voice deepening with unhidden malice. 

Isith nodded and turned away from him. “I will see you soon, Cicero. Your Listener is proud of you.” With that, she bolted from Glenmoril Cave. Shadowmere was prancing around impatiently a few yards from the entrance and she swung herself up onto him. Suddenly, her own life seemed much less valuable, her scarred beauty much less important…all that mattered was that she reach Jorrvaskr in time. 


	13. Chapter 13

It had taken her three nights to reach Falkreath. She made it back to Jorrvaskr in a day. If it was possible for the supernatural horse to die from over exertion, it would have no doubt happened as Isith rode him hard the entire way, stopping only once when Shadowmere stumbled and sent them both crashing to the ground. But he had gotten up, pawing and furious from sensing his master’s urgency, and Isith had climbed back on and resumed the break-neck pace. By the time the horse and rider reached Whiterun, Isith did not stop at the stables. She rode the huge black horse straight across the ramps and not a single guard dared stop her. 

At the gates one of the guards stepped forward and reached to take the reins from her hands as she leapt off the horse. “You should hurry, Companion, there has been trouble at Jorrvaskr.” The man’s face was grave behind the shadows of his helmet. Isith nodded grimly and set off at a run through the city gates. The streets were empty and the market stalls had been abandoned mid-way through the day, the vendors driven from their stalls by the threat of violence. 

Isith did not pause long to survey the scene and continued up the steps of Jorrvaskr, taking them two at a time. The feeling of dread was steadily building in her chest with each stride. _I am too late…gods, let my friends be alive._ Bodies lay strewn around the entrance to the mead hall and she stopped long enough to assure herself that they did not belong to any of the Companions. They were Silver Hand members, all of them. _Thank Talos! Let it be the same inside!_

She reached out to shove open the heavy doors of the hall but found them barred. Cursing, she pounded on her fist against the wood, screaming to be let in. A moment later she heard the sliding of wood against wood and the door opened. Aela greeted her, grim faced and bloody. Isith forced her way inside, shoving past the woman and observing the atrocity before her. The physical damage to Jorrvaskr was minimal; the ancient woodwork had withstood most of the damage save for some scarring along the railing and columns. Even more bodies littered the floor, some of them laying half-way in the fire pit in the center of the room, the slow burning flesh sending a peculiar odor through the air. 

Isith heard moaning from across the room and looked to see Athis writhing on the ground. Farkas and Vilkas were too busy kneeling by a second body to notice that Isith had arrived. A cry of denial tore from Isith when she recognized the lifeless figure as Kodlak. _Gods, no! It’s not possible…not Kodlak. **NO**_. The world seemed to turn on its head around her. She was the Dragonborn…the damned Listener…a Nightingale…she was nearly unstoppable. But she could not stop this. The thought shook her too her core and she trembled. 

Her voice was barely above a whisper as she said her thoughts out loud. One rang truer than all the others. “ _I have caused this_.” 

Suddenly, she was struck from behind. Aela was on her then, straddling her. The glint of steel in the fire light hardly had time in to register in Isith’s mind as Aela pressed a dagger to her throat. Isith gripped her wrists, struggling against the larger woman’s strength as she tried to force the dagger away. Isith was driven by desperation while the woman on top of her was propelled by shear fury. 

“You traitorous bitch! I’ll kill you!” Long claws began to extend from the nail-beds of Aela’s hands and her teeth grew from their gums to reveal sharp points. 

Isith gasped for breath beneath her and pressed her head away from the blade. She turned her head to see Vilkas standing over Kodlak, his eyes watching the scene intently. In fact, every Companion in the room had their eyes on her. Cold, dead, hateful eyes all of them. 

“Help me!” she pleaded. With a sigh of relief, she felt Aela’s weight being lifted off of her. Farkas grappled the red-head around her shoulders and shoved her backwards, placing himself between her and Isith, who was scrambling to her feet. 

“That traitor dies, Farkas! Get out of my way!” Aela lunged at Isith once more but Farkas caught and tossed her back. 

“No.” 

“She led _her people_ here! She did this!” 

“Aela, _no_.” 

Aela snarled but did not attack again. Isith stumbled backward, wide-eyed and in shock from the unexpected encounter. She felt her back bump against one of the solid columns and she could retreat no further. Farkas turned to face her and she saw that he was badly wounded on one of his arms. His face and neck were caked in blood and the grime of battle. His eyes were the only ones in the entire room that did not look as if they wanted to kill her. The silvery irises came to rest on the unhealed wounds of Isith’s face. Isith flinched when she saw them widen in shock. She turned her face away, preferring to look instead at the body on the floor. 

She moved slowly down the stairs and came to rest in front of the dead Harbinger. Vilkas stepped back and she saw that he was not looking at her. He just kept staring down at the figure on the floor. Isith’s knees gave out from under her and she crumbled down beside the dead patriarch. A bloodied dagger lay nearby. It was a cruel and jagged looking thing with a black leather handle. Etched into the dark leather was a five-fingered hand. 

Isith felt sick all of a sudden and she reached out to touch the knife. Her hand recoiled quickly as if burned. It was a Brotherhood weapon, beyond a doubt, one meant to send a message. Multiple stab wounds peppered Kodlak’s belly and chest, seemingly caused by the weapon at Isith’s side. 

“Oh, Kodlak…” Tears welled up in her eyes and she found she did not have the strength to hold them back. Tentatively, she reached to touch the dead man’s face. A set of cold, vice-like fingers snatched her wrist away roughly and she cast her eyes up, thinking that she would see Vilkas glaring down at her. It hurt her like a blade to the heart when she realized that Farkas had moved from behind her and was now stopping her from touching the Harbinger. 

“No. You…don’t touch him.” His eyes, as they stared harshly down at her, where so much colder than they had been before. 

Isith snatched her arm away as if he had threatened to cut it off. Her mouth slacked open and she stared back at him. His gaze did not falter. Wearily, Isith nodded and stood, stepping back respectfully from the body. _I am sorry, Kodlak, for all of this. I am sorry I ever stepped over this threshold._

Every person in the room watched the exchange in cold agreement. Even amongst the Dark Brotherhood, Isith had never felt so out of place and alone. She met each pair of eyes hoping to find some sign of sympathy or compassion but all she found was loathing and an evident sense of betrayal. They thought she had betrayed them…whether intentionally or by simply existing within _their_ walls, _she_ had brought this down upon them. 

Her knees threatened to give out once more and she stumbled backward towards the door she had entered through. When she reached it, she turned to speak but found her mouth too dry to form words so she slipped silently out of the building and left the destruction of Jorrvaskr behind her. 

……………………………………………………………………………… 

Two days later, the funeral for Kodlak Whitemane was held under a bright sky and full moon. Every Companion was in attendance along with the Jarl and his steward. A pyre had been built over the coals of the Skyforge and Kodlak’s body was laid atop it. Vilkas watched the ceremony through watery eyes, too much of a man to let the tears fall but too close to the dead Harbinger to forgo all emotion. His brother stood beside him, stony in his observance. Vilkas did not have to speak to know his twin was in as much pain as he was. Kodlak was dead and the girl…Isith was gone. 

As the flames licked at the pyre, hot against the frigid night, Vilkas let his mind wander. His eyes stared out at the monument, unseeing. The attack had been out of the blue, catching them all by surprise. Leading the first wave of Silver Hand bandits were four or five men in red and black armor. They had not been skilled fighters but they knew enough to provide an edge to the Silver Hand. At first, it had not occurred to Vilkas that these men were assassins. He had never encountered anyone from Dark Brotherhood other than Isith. Briefly, he wondered if she had worn armor like theirs once. Of _course she did…just as she stole the lives of good men, men like Kodlak..._

He could not stop the bitter thoughts; he had been thinking them from the first moment he realized that the Brotherhood was aiding the Silver Hand. Part of him wanted to hate Isith for what she had brought down on the Companions… _If only she had never walked through those doors, if I had only let her die that day with the bandits...Kodlak may still be alive._

Another part of him ached at the idea of having never met Isith. _No._ It was a treacherous thought and he would not allow it. She deserved no sympathy. He would be damned to Oblivion and back before he showed it to her. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. 

As the Harbinger’s body was engulfed by flames, Vilkas looked away. He could not watch. Silently, he turned and slipped away, unnoticed by those that remained. The quick glint of a shadow in the darkness caught his eye as he glided down the steps. _Isith? Would she come back here?_ He had been almost certain that she had fled the city after being driven from Jorrvaskr. _Perhaps I was wrong._

The shadow was not as stealthy as it liked to think and Vilkas was able to trail it down the steps of Jorrvaskr. Sure enough, as she turned the corner to take the first few steps, Isith tugged down her hood. He watched as she flitted down the stairs, rubbing her eyes as she went. She was crying. _How dare sh_ e! Incensed, Vilkas set off after her. 

If she knew he was following her, she gave no sign of it and continued through the streets of Whiterun until she came to the Bannered Mare. She slipped inside and moments later Vilkas followed her. The inn was quiet that evening. Many of the townspeople were in mourning for the loss of the Harbinger and most had enough decency to give up drinking for a night or two while their Companions grieved. 

Vilkas let the front door close quietly behind him, easing it shut so that it made little noise. He looked up just in time to catch the black ripple of Isith’s cape drag around a corner. _So she did not leave town after all…_ it surprised Vilkas. He followed her upstairs and caught up with her just as she was entering her room. 

He called out to her, “Isith!” 

He heard her sigh, her head drooping between her shoulders. She did not turn around and let her hand linger on the door. “What is it, Vilkas?” 

Vilkas strode forward and grabbed her shoulder, more roughly than he really meant to, and forced her to face him. She glared up at him, her eyes fiery and red-rimmed. For the first time he noticed the damage to her face. When had that happened? Had he really been so stupefied the day of the attack that he had missed _that_? If the injury had been fresh two days ago then she had obviously been to see a healer. The art of Restoration had worked its magic to heal the wounds but the scars still remained. They had been healed as well as could be expected, the stark white scar tissue raised higher than the untouched skin around it. 

Vilkas studied the wound, his eyes dancing back and forth over her once beautiful face. The damage was enough that it would cause many men to turn away from her from the rest of her life but he could not bring himself to do so. His eyes lingered too long on her, however, and she scowled. The expression caused the scar that trailed through her lip to tug oddly downward, stretching and pulled the rose-colored flesh of her mouth. 

“Staring at me hurts me more than if you were to slap me, wolf. If my face bothers you, turn and leave.” 

Her words were harsh and they stung him. Her feelings should have rolled right off him but to his frustration they did not. 

So, Vilkas did what he did best. He narrowed his eyes at her, forcing himself to look into her green gaze. “Consider it the price for your betrayal.” He retorted sharply. 

He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Isith turned on her heel and in one swift movement she was in her room, the door slamming closed in Vilkas’ face. _Blasted woman!_

He beat his fist against the door and said lowly, “There are more important things right now than your wounded vanity. Open the door and we shall speak of them.” 

“You try and open that door, Vilkas, and I will make sure you’re the next Companion they hold a funeral for!” 

_I don’t have time for this!_ With a growl, he slammed his shoulder against the wood and it flew open, the fragile lock snapping out of its place. Isith shoved him back as he barreled inside, her hands fighting for a grip against his polished armor. Vilkas snatched her wrists and held them so that she could not move. 

“Where were you!?” he yelled, “We needed you!” 

He was too close and Isith turned the right side of her face away, forcing him to only look at the unruined half. For an instant he wondered why she should care before he tightened his grip and barked the same question once more. 

“Kodlak sent me – let go! -- after the Glenmoril Witches.” 

The warrior turned her loose and she jumped back several feet. Her back bumped against a dresser with a clatter. 

Vilkas narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. “Why?” 

“He wanted to cure the curse! He told me to bring back their heads!” 

“And did you?” 

“Yes!” 

The man scoffed and waved his hand angrily in her face. “Kodlak is dead! What good will it do him?” 

“I don’t know! He did not tell me anything else.” 

She seemed sincere enough. He realized with frustration that he had no reason to disbelieve her. He had heard Kodlak mention the tale of the Glenmoril Witches in passing but he knew relatively little of it. What he did know was that there was something much more important than a few decapitated heads that must be found. 

Vilkas sighed and ran a hand through his hair. This woman was the last person he wanted to ask for help at the moment. Until now he had not even thought of asking her but…the fragments of Wuuthrad had been stolen during the attempted siege and they had to be found. Against his better judgment, he asked her for her aid. 

“Wuuthrad has been stolen. If…perhaps if you are seeking to redeem yourself,” _Why in Talos’ name am I giving her yet another chance_ , “You can help me recover them.” 

Isith looked back to him, her eyes studying his. “Recover the fragments?” 

“Yes. But more importantly, the Silver Hand needs to be taught a lesson.” 

Isith nodded her head. “Agreed.” 

The two of them stood there for a moment, neither of them knowing what to say and both of their minds churning. Vilkas could not decide, Talos help him, whether or not he was making a mistake asking this woman, who had brought so much trouble upon his guild, for help. Try as he might, however, he could not bring himself to condemn her outright. As always, she brought with her _complications_. It was maddening. 

Eventually, Vilkas spoke and as he did he tried to make his words as bitter as he could. “This is your last chance, Isith. With Kodlak alive the Companions would have rallied behind you but now they see you only as –“ 

“His murderer.” She looked away as she said the words and did not see Vilkas nod his head slowly. 

There was little else to say and he started to move towards the door. He glanced back only once and wished that he had not. Isith dropped down limply on the edge of her bed. The guilt she felt was written all over her face. Vilkas could not stand to watch her any longer and he slipped silently out of the room. 

………………………………………………………………… 

“Where have you been?” Farkas’ question surprised the smaller twin as he entered his room. His brother was seated in one of the chairs, cradling a bottle of mead in his hands. Vilkas looked at him and shook his head. He said nothing as he began to loosen the buckles of his armor. Farkas glared at him, his blue eyes unreadable. 

“You left the ceremony early.” 

Vilkas grunted. Farkas did not let the topic go. “Well?” he asked as he took another swig from the bottle. 

The smaller brother sighed and tossed one of his bracers onto the bed. “I went to see Isith. She is still in the city.” 

Farkas sat there looking at him, blinking. “You did what, now?” He looked as if he didn’t believe it. 

Vilkas cut his eyes at his twin, scowling. Farkas grumbled and ran his thumb over his stubbly chin. The shadow of a beard was forming quite clearly along his jaw. Like Vilkas, he hadn’t much felt like shaving the past couple of days. “You don’t look like you’ve been in a fight.” Farkas muttered. 

Unlatching a pauldron from around his shoulder, Vilkas rolled his eyes. “I did not go to her to fight her, Farkas.” 

“Well, why’d you go to her then?” There was more suspicion in his brother’s voice than Vilkas was comfortable with. 

“I…I don’t know, brother! I made a promise to her that I would stand behind her when the time came.” 

Farkas finished off the rest of the mead, drinking it down in one tip of the bottle. A few stray droplets of the honey-colored liquid dribbled down his chin and he wiped the back of his hand against them. Vilkas watched his brother with something akin to pity. The man was lost; he had been lost for days, ever since the attack. His normally clear blue eyes were bleary, revealing more than he would surely like. 

“Do you think that…that she is really responsible for this, Vilkas?” Farkas gazed over at his twin, who was staring down at the floor, his hands no longer fiddling with his armor buckles. 

Vilkas wanted to shout at him. This was not the first time he was expected to be the one with all the answers. Sometimes all Vilkas wanted to do was sit down at the old Harbinger’s feet and listen like a little boy, content that there was someone who could take the burden of knowledge from him. _Am I not allowed questions!? Must I have all the answers? By Ysgramor, Kodlak, I wish you were here._ He remained quiet for several moments. 

“Yes,” he finally replied, “She is responsible for this, Farkas.” 

His brother looked despondently at the floor. He closed his eyes, dark lashes hovering over the skin of his cheek. Vilkas let the next few minutes pass in silence while he removed the rest of his armor. He laid the pieces neatly on top of his dresser and moved over to rinse his face in the basin by his bed. As he was drying his face, he heard Farkas stand. Vilkas turned around and found himself face to face with his brother. 

“Farkas?” 

“You’re wrong.” 

“What?” 

Farkas scowled and poked a finger at Vilkas’ bare chest. “I said _you’re wrong_.” Vilkas narrowed his eyes at his brother. Logic was not the big man’s strong suit. 

Before Vilkas could voice any objections, Farkas continued, his voice rumbling more than usual, “We’re all wrong, Vilkas. This isn’t Isith’s fault!” 

“Farkas-“ 

“No! She told us that those assassins might come after her and we believed her. We just didn’t do anything about it.” He had started pacing in a little semi-circle as he went on. “It’s like we were waiting on her to tell us when and where they were going to show up. Isith’s smart, even smarter than you, but she’s not _that_ smart.” 

Vilkas bowed up, bristling. “She is not smarter than m-“ 

“Brother! I’m thinking!” Farkas snapped, looking annoyed. “We just let her go on about her business without ever taking her seriously! We should have been ready, we should have at least warned everyone to be on their guard.” 

“Not even Kodlak could have known the Dark Brotherhood would attack through the Silver Hand!” Vilkas argued, his temper rising. 

“That’s not the point, Vilkas! Isith told us that someone might attack. Someone did attack, just not the way she thought they would. The point is that we should have been prepared for _something_. I’ve thought about this a lot.” 

Vilkas rubbed his temples, sighing. “So it seems…” 

Farkas stopped his dizzying pacing and came to place a hand on the smaller twin’s shoulder. “All of the blame can’t be hers, brother.” 

Vilkas shrugged the hand away and fell back onto his bed. His head hurt. The blame should most certainly be hers. Every last bit of it. But, Vilkas wasn’t unreasonable. He wasn’t going to turn his back on Isith completely. 

He opened one eye and peeked over to his brother. He mumbled, “I thought you were angry with her.” 

Farkas shrugged. “I was.” _A simple answer for a simple man. I envy him_. 

“You’ve forgiven her, then?” 

“I think so. Kodlak wouldn’t want us to be angry.” 

_Kodlak…no, he wouldn’t_ . Vilkas rolled over onto his side, his back to his brother, and grumbled, “You’re fickle, Farkas.” 

“Says the mead to the wine.” 

Vilkas flipped back over and sat up. “ _What_?” 

Farkas kept looking at him. “It’s my version of that saying…what is it? ‘The pot calling the kettle black,’ except it’s mead and wine.” The big warrior seemed perfectly happy with his explanation. 

Vilkas blinked at him. “That makes no sense, Farkas.” 

“It makes lots of sense.” 

“ _Farkas_ …” 

The bigger twin muttered something to himself so that Vilkas could not hear and backed towards the door. “I’m going to bed now. I plan on talking to the others about my…theory.” 

Even as he closed his eyes once more, Vilkas could not let his brother walk away victoriously. “It’s not a _theory_ , Farkas. It’s an _opinion_.” 

“Shut up, Vilkas.” Happy to have won the argument, at least a little bit, Farkas retreated through the door and closed it behind him, leaving Vilkas alone in the dark. 

With his brother gone, what little humor he had found that night quickly faded and he was left alone again with his somber thoughts. If Farkas could convince himself so quickly that his lover was not responsible for happened at Jorrvaskr, so be it. Vilkas, on the other hand, would not be so easily persuaded. He would continue to watch the girl as he always had and keep his promise to her but he would not so easily forgive her. _No_ , he thought just as he drifted off to sleep, _she will not be easy to forgive_. 


	14. Chapter 14

Another day passed before Isith and Vilkas left Whiterun. Instead of meeting him at Jorrvaskr, which she longed to do, she let him come fetch her from the inn. Although Vilkas had come to her for help, she did not make the mistake of interpreting his plea for aid as something it was not. All was not well between her and the Companions. She had spent the past few nights wondering if it ever would be again. 

The Nord warrior came for her just before the sun was up in the sky on the forth morning after Kodlak’s funeral. When he arrived to find her waiting outside the Bannered Mare, she greeted him with a half-hearted smile that he did not return. 

“Let’s go.” He said. He paused just long enough to look at her for a moment in the hazy light of the morning. 

Isith stood and snatched up her pack. “You never said where we’re going.” 

“Just follow me, girl.” 

Isith scowled. “So, we’re back to _girl_ again, are we?” 

When Vilkas did not reply, she brushed past him and started toward the city gate. They had almost reached the stables when Vilkas decided to answer her. 

“It’s a place where we’ve suspected the Silver Hand to be operating from for some time, Driftshade Refuge.” 

Isith halted so suddenly that Vilkas bumped into her. He was the bigger of the two and the collision knocked Isith forward. Regaining her balance, she whirled around, her eyes wide. 

“Driftshade?” She did little to hide the alarm in her voice. “That’s near Dawnstar.” 

Vilkas glared at her, annoyed to have stopped. “What of it?” 

“Vilkas…I...” She sighed and chewed at her bottom lip nervously. “The Dark Brotherhood headquarters is located in Dawnstar.” 

The man said nothing and looked away past the battlements and out onto the plains. “We will have to go around, then.” 

Isith was not so easily comforted. Nazir would likely expect retaliation from a group of such fiery warriors. It was quite possible that he suspected Isith of telling the Companions where the sanctuary was located. If that was the case, Isith knew, he would have lookouts posted for miles around Dawnstar. The last thing she wanted to do was to be cornered unprepared by every assassin in the Hold. 

“If,” she said after thinking for several moments, “If that’s your plan then we will have to move as quickly as possible. Once we’re near Dawnstar, it’ll be straight in and straight out. We cannot linger.” 

“Fine, why are we standing around, then?” Vilkas shooed her onward. Scowling, Isith remained silent and continued along to the stables. Half an hour later they had the horses saddled and set off towards Dawnstar. 

They rode for several hours in relative peace and quiet. Every now and again, Isith would catch Vilkas watching her. Each time she glanced at him he wore a different expression...animosity, sadness, _longing_ , to name a few. She eventually grew uncomfortable under the warrior’s heated gaze and kicked her heels into the Shadowmere’s sides. She rode like that for a long ways, keeping considerable distance between her and the man trailing after her. 

Not speaking to Vilkas was almost as bad as speaking to him. Isith quickly grew despondent at the lack of banter; she tried and failed on multiple occasions to goad him into snapping at her. They were well into the Pale when Vilkas finally said something. When she heard his words, she immediately regretted her wish to speak to him. 

Out of the wild blue, he called to her. 

From several yards ahead, Isith turned around in the saddle, the worn leather creaking uncomfortably beneath her. “What is it, Vilkas?” 

“Tell me something.” 

Isith sighed and slowed Shadowmere so that Vilkas’ dapple gelding could catch up. “Shall I tell you anything at all? Or do you want to know something in particular?” 

Ice-colored eyes glared needles back at her and she tried not to shrink away. He was riding alongside her now and there was no escaping the focus with which he was staring at her. 

“Was there ever a time when you enjoyed it?” 

“Enjoyed what exactly?” The question was asked only to prolong her answer. She already knew what he meant. Vilkas looked at her with a countenance that warned her not to be coy. 

Sighing, Isith looked away. _Gods, I wish I could say no._ “There was only one occasion.” She replied quietly. The Nord’s eyes never wavered and she continued, “When the sanctuary near Falkreath was raided…I was presented with the opportunity to kill the woman who had sent me into the hands of –“ Her words faltered; Vilkas still did not know about the Emperor. She chose her next words carefully, “Into the hands of a man I greatly wronged.” 

“How did you wrong him?” 

_I tried to kill the man he was sworn to protect_ ? _Let’s take the less dramatic route_. “I killed his son,” she explained, “It doesn’t matter. He wanted revenge and he nearly had it because of Astrid, the Brotherhood’s self-proclaimed leader at the time. When I returned to the sanctuary, amidst the blood and flames, Astrid had offered herself as the Black Sacrament and begged me to kill her. So, with a smile on my face, I…” she closed her eyes, “I drove my blade through her chest.” Did she regret killing Astrid? _Never_. The woman’s death was one she would never mourn. What she did regret, however, were the events that were set into motion upon the fallen leader’s death. Now, _that_ was something that weighed on her heart. 

Vilkas was silent for a long while, so long that Isith was certain the conversation was over. Several minutes later, he harrumphed and said matter-of-factly, “You may be more of a killer than I thought.” 

Isith glared hatefully at him. “More of one than you thought? Are there different degrees of murder, Vilkas?” 

“No,” he stated firmly. “But there are people who enjoy it, just as there are those that do not. Those that kill out of bloodlust or vice and then those that kill out of need. I think it is an odd thing to find that lined blurred, even the smallest bit.” 

“You speak as if you hoped I murdered all those people because they gave me reason. They didn’t. I chose to kill them, Vilkas. There’s no denying it. Oblivion, I dropped a statue on a woman’s head at her own wedding.” 

Vilkas’ eyes widened and he gaped at her. Isith looked at him with mock incredulity. “What? You didn’t hear about it?” she asked. 

He blinked at her. A moment later, he shook his head as if trying to rid himself of whatever thoughts had crossed his mind. “By Ysgramor, I don’t want to know.” He sighed deeply. “Regardless, I thought that perhaps you killed them because you feared for you own life.” 

“Vilkas, I never expected that the bride was going to pry herself out from under a two ton piece of masonry and come after me. If she had, I would have let her kill me simply for the effort it took.” 

The warrior’s eyes darkened and he growled at her. The joke was not appreciated. “You’re a damned fool.” Isith scowled at him bitterly, her green eyes flashing against his. He was fuming. “Speaking to you is the most useless undertaking anyone has ever attempted! There is no point in trying to understand you, girl.” 

He clicked to his horse and buried his heels into the animal’s sides, spurring the gelding ahead. Isith lagged behind despite Shadowmere’s insistence at picking up his pace to follow after the other horse, pulling back half-heartedly on the reins as he trotted forward. _This is why having heart-to-hearts with one’s arch-nemesis is a bad idea. It all comes down to yelling in the end_. 

She rode along, Vilkas well out of sight, for a long time. Somewhere off to her left, much too close for comfort, she heard howling. Isith slowed Shadowmere to a stop and listened. There was something else on the wind; she could both hear it and _feel_ it. It was like a breath on the wind, growing consistently louder as the seconds ticked by. It occurred to her that wolves may be the least of her problems. The cool kiss of snow flurries brushed her cheeks but she did not notice. She stared out into the woods beyond the path, watching for any sign of movement. 

For five minutes at least, she stood still, unable to shake the feeling that danger was near. _Trolls, perhaps? No…it’s something else._ She pressed her feet into Shadowmere’s haunches and went forward, uneasy. The breath that she had sworn she heard was growing louder now, so much that it was almost a whisper, the faintest of words. 

Aloud, she said, “What is that?” 

“Isith!” Vilkas’ voice broke over the sound and the woman glanced up with a start. Vilkas was standing several yards ahead, annoyance plastered all over his features and his gelding pawing nervously at the whitening ground. “Hurry up.” He grumbled as she drew nearer. 

Isith obeyed and caught up with him and they continued together. “What are you-“ 

“Be quiet, wolf.” Isith snapped. She received a red-hot glare from her fellow rider but he said nothing. As he watched her, he soon grew weary as well. His muscles tensed under his armor, the buckles and leather straps creaking audibly. 

“We need to hurry.” Isith brought the black stallion into a canter, Vilkas following close behind. Several minutes later, they broke out into an open clearing. The trees had been cleared for timber along both sides of the path, leaving nothing but scarred landscape for several hundred yards on either side. Jagged stumps and dead limbs littered the ground, their surfaces turning white as the snow began to fall more heavily. 

Isith cursed. She did not relish the idea of being out in the open. “Something’s coming Vilkas. Be ready.” 

At her side, the warrior unsheathed his sword, balancing it in one hand for the moment. Isith readied her bow and slid off of Shadowmere, dropping to the frosty ground with a _crunch_. Another sound, this time loud enough so that it was audible for miles, broke through the air. 

“What in the name of Talos was that?” Vilkas glanced at Isith, dismounting from the gelding. 

Isith did not reply. _Oh no…oh, this is bad._ She turned to Vilkas and did her best to suppress the panic in her voice. “Get back on your horse,” she said. 

Vilkas narrowed his eyes at her. “No.” 

Isith shoved him roughly, so hard that he stumbled back. He caught himself, eyes wide in surprise. “I said get on the damn horse, Vilkas. Ride ahead, don’t stop. I’ll catch up with you.” 

“Absolutely not!” the warrior snarled. 

“There’s no time to-“ It was too late. A serpentine roar, furious and malevolent, echoed across the clearing. The wind picked up, sending brushes and thistles tumbling over ground, disturbed by something in the air. Moments later, the culprit flew overhead. 

Vilkas’ eyes widened in shocked awe. “By Ysgramor! A dragon!” 

Isith frowned. “A damned dragon.” 

She notched an arrow and aimed it toward the sky, the steel tip trailing the magnificent beast’s path. Beside her, Vilkas’ grip on his weapon tightened, his gloves constricting loudly over the leather and metal. His eyes flicked nervously to Isith’s face and then to her bow. 

In an effort to calm his raging nerves and adrenaline, he asked her, “You are the Dragonborn, correct?” 

Isith paid him no attention. Just as the last word came out of Vilkas’ mouth, Isith let the arrow go. It arced up toward the dragon and found its mark under the soft scales between the beast’s belly and right wing. Isith cursed, unhappy with the shot, and hoisted the bow up once more. Regardless, the wound had earned her the dragon’s full attention and it doubled around. It circled the clearing twice, each flap of its great wings stirring the brush and blowing debris into the Companions’ faces. With another tremendous bellow it began its decent. Vilkas’ dapple gelding reared and took off for the cover of the woods. The poor animal was not fast enough. Its frantic path took it within range of the dragon’s vice-like jaws and the horse was lifted off the ground, thrashing and whickering. Its mouth full of horse flesh, the dragon touched down. 

When the huge beast landed, the earth around it shook, sending out tremors that the warriors felt through their boots. Vilkas tumbled backward and landed roughly against the ground. He scrambled to get up and was met with Isith’s hand in his face. Her fingers splayed over his features as she shoved him back down. 

She shouted at him to stay down and took off towards the beast at a sprint, leaving a bewildered Vilkas gaping after her. A hundred yards ahead of her, the dragon chewed on the horse, its jaws adjusting against the animal’s large size as the dragon turned it over in its mouth. A pair of serpentine onyx-black eyes found Isith and narrowed. With one quick toss of its head, the dragon threw the dead horse over into the woods. 

Isith let loose three shots from her bow, one right after another, and each found its mark somewhere in the dragon’s thick neck. The creature shouted at her, a language only she could understand, and she dove to the side as icy breath rained over her. She landed roughly and forced herself up before the dragon had time to pin her down. She kept moving, firing arrows every few steps. One well-placed shot was buried in the depths of the dragon’s eye and it let loose a pained shriek. Its head whipped to-and-fro faster than Isith could dodge it. The beast’s snout caught her across the chest and sent her through the air. 

When she landed, she rolled onto her back, groaning. Try as she might, she could not muster the strength to get up. All of wind had been driven from her lungs and she wheezed, her ribs and muscles constricting sorely over her organs. _Dear Talos! That hurt!_ Somewhere in the distance she heard a cry of fury. Gripping her side, she pushed herself up in time to see Vilkas charging over the expanse of ground, his sword hoisted high as he ran. 

“Vilkas, no!” She screamed at him, her own voice drowned out by another bellow from the dragon. Wincing and cursing, she clambered to her feet. Her heart was racing so loudly she could hear it pumping in her ears. A feeling of dread gripped her and propelled her forward. She raced to cover the distance, shouting at the great beast as she went. It was to no avail and the dragon did not so much as glance her way. Its attention was focused on the charging warrior in front of it. 

Another bout of icy breath flew from the creature’s mouth. Vilkas charged straight ahead, brushing off the cold, and sliced up into the dragon’s neck. His blade sank deep, causing the dragon to pitch and snarl. Vilkas withdrew the sword and leapt away from the claws that swept toward him. 

The beast rounded on him once more, throwing its massive body around faster than seemed possible. Vilkas stumbled backward, caught off guard by the dragon’s sudden change in direction, and fell to the ground. Isith reached him then and wedged herself in between Vilkas and the beast. 

Stony-eyed, she met the dragon’s heated gaze. In the depths of their eyes, their spirits glimpsed each other and they were kindred for the briefest of moments. Isith’s heart clenched and she braced herself for what was to come; she had faced dragons before, striking each of them down with the sort of remorse she would feel from ending a friend. There was always understanding in the end; it followed the fury as each of the great beasts accepted their demise. She could sense it in the subtle change of posture in the dragon – if it did not realize who she was before, it knew now without a doubt. Its remaining eye flashed and its head reared back, preparing to meet the Dragonborn head on. 

Vilkas was screaming at her from behind, his hands fisting the material of her cloak as he tried to pull her back. She ignored him. Letting the feeling of the thu’um rise up from deep within her center, she tensed, oblivious to the sounds and movements raging around her. The dragon’s jaws stretched open and its own shout came bellowing out like a gust of wind. Isith met the dragon’s element with the opposite and fire flew from her throat, clashing with the frost in a dizzying storm of heat and ice. 

Her shout overpowered the dragon’s and it reeled back, stunned. Isith snatched one of her swords from her side and ran forward. She brought the blade down against the dragon’s lowered head, cutting into the meat just behind the skull. She drew back again and swung the blade once more with all her might. This time she felt it sink into the bone. It would have to be retrieved later, she knew and released it, her hands moving fluidly to her second weapon. She drew the scimitar and brought it up over her head, the tip angled down. An onyx eye flicked to her face, alive but weakened. In the seconds before she drove the blade through the center of the dragon’s skull, the look of utter hatred in the creature’s eyes gave way to the briefest flicker of forgiveness. The slitted eyes closed in honorable acceptance one final time and Isith, satisfied with that knowledge, brought the sword down. The blade cut through the bone and continued on out the underside of the jaw. 

It was over then. She tumbled back, exhausted, and fell against the ground gratefully. Vilkas stared at her and started to speak when the dragon’s body combusted suddenly, turning to ash before them. His jaw hung open as he noticed a slight stirring of the air around the body. The air shimmered and swirled, flowing with the gentleness of water toward Isith, who was waiting patiently on her knees. Her breathing slowed as the aura enveloped her, seeping in through every exposed pore. The process was over seconds later, a bewildered Vilkas setting rigidly nearby. 

Isith stood and dusted herself off. She extended a hand and Vilkas clasped it reluctantly. The adrenaline of battle passed and she watched him with amused eyes. His lips opened and closed, his eyes dancing from what remained of the dragon and back to her. 

“That…that was a dragon.” 

Isith nodded. “Yep.” 

“It was a _dragon_.” 

Isith cocked an eyebrow at him. “D’you hit your head, Vilkas?” 

For once the warrior did not glare or scowl. He was too stupefied to do either. Isith sighed and reached out to pat his shoulder. “We should make camp for the night. You look like you need to sit for a bit.” 

“A _dragon_.” 

Isith shook her head and turned away. She whistled and moments later Shadowmere’s black figure came pacing out of the woods. She thought regretfully about having to find the other horse’s body. Vilkas’ supplies, well, what was left of them, were still stored in his saddle bags. She pitched camp that night without complaint. The bemused expression she got from watching Vilkas pace around for hours never quite lost its charm. The wolf would never be able to give her flack again about her legitimacy and that thought pleased her more than anything else. 


	15. Chapter 15

They did not linger long near Dawnstar. They rode south for the entire day until they reached the southwestern edge of the Pale. The silence between them was as uncomfortable as Isith could ever remember it. Vilkas would not look her in the eye, his face a visage of outrage that refused to abate. She had killed the remaining Silver Hand members herself in order to keep Vilkas’ hands free of bloodshed. The men were not innocent, it was a fact carved in stone, but they had surrendered. For a man like Vilkas, as fiery as he was, to strike three men down after they admitted defeat…it would have haunted him for years to come, Isith was certain. 

He could hate her if he wanted to, she would give it as good as she got. But she would not regret her decision. Isith did not say anything for the remainder of the ride that day and when they finally did stop for the night, they set camp without speaking. 

_Ah, just like old times…gods, I hate ‘old times.’_ As they settled into camp for the night, Isith wasn’t sure who was seething the most. Anger was still rolling off Vilkas in waves; it had been for most of the trip. As for Isith, she was busy trying to keep her head from exploding every time she thought about the Dark Brotherhood. Her thoughts had long since moved on from striking down the Silver Hand. They, as always, had lingered far too long on the Brotherhood and she was in a sour mood for it. 

_And where’s Farkas? Is he here? Nooo…loves me one minute then runs away the next._ She scoffed out loud, clinking the toe of her boot against a stone. The rock popped up through the air and nicked Vilkas on the arm. _Ha! Bloody bastard! Serves him right._ She looked at him smugly and tossed her pack on the ground, plopping down beside it. 

“Go get firewood.” From the tone of his voice, it was obviously meant to be an order. 

“You go get firewood.” Isith retorted. 

Silver eyes narrowed on her, glaring daggers at her vital points. “Go. Now. It’s the least you can do.” 

_Oh, so he’s going to take the low, guilty road._ Isith stood up with a huff. _Well, it’s working, damn him._

She left him there for nearly an hour as she wondered about picking up wood as she found it. She came back toting an armful of dry twigs and branches and dropped them in the center of camp. They were close enough to the outer edges of the Pale that most of the snow had given way to heavily wooded forest. Patches of white still dotted the landscape here and there. 

Vilkas didn’t seem to trust her with lighting the fire so she retreated to her corner of camp and laid out her bedroll. Once her place was set, she left Vilkas’ watchful eye and trudged miserably through a patch of trees to a bubbling stream she had discovered while hunting down the wood. Stripping all her armor off, she waded into the waist-deep water. She sucked in her breath as the chilly flow of the stream wrapped around her, carrying away the first few layers of grime from her skin. 

She had not bathed since leaving Whiterun and the dirt and blood from travel had matted thick against her skin. She lingered in the water until she was spotless, scrubbing away the dirt and muck until her skin was raw underneath. Her hair proved even harder to clean and she had to duck herself several times over just to loosen the grime. 

Once she was clean, she redressed and returned to camp. Vilkas was hunched over the fire, staring blindly into the flames. When he heard her shuffling close by, he turned his gaze to her. 

“Where have you been?” 

“Bathing. Maybe if you tried it sometime, you might recognize it. I can smell you from here.” 

Vilkas glowered at her and stood up. “Where’s the water?” 

Isith raised an eyebrow. _He’s really going to do it? Clean Vilkas? Will miracles never cease?_ She pointed a squeaky-clean finger in the direction of the stream. 

She was alone for a long while, only her thoughts to keep her company. It didn’t help that they proved to be positively _miserable_ companions. Each time some self-pitying idea weaseled into her head, she forced it out again. She was too angry to spend time being sad. Tears and regrets wouldn’t bring Kodlak back, nor would they reverse time. All she could do was push through until the end. 

The fire had begun to die down by the time she heard footsteps approaching. Vilkas stepped into sight, naked save for a pair of leather pants. Isith blinked at him to adjust her eyes to the sight. The Nord was practically sparkling he was so clean. There were no layers of dirt to obscure the view of the chiseled plains of his stomach or the battle-toned muscles of his arms. His chin length hair was jet black from the dampness, falling about his jaw in wet tendrils. Isith had never noticed before but his was curlier than Farkas’ longer locks. 

Vilkas didn’t spare her a glance as he walked over to his side of the camp. As he laid his armor aside, he said, “You might have warned me it was _freezing_.” 

Isith hardly heard him in time to comprehend his words. He might have been a bastard but he was a damn fine looking one. Drawing herself from her stupor, she shrugged her shoulders and smirked. “I thought it’d be more fun to let you find out on your own.” 

“Bitch.” The word was mumbled so quietly she almost missed it. He knelt down and started to arrange his armor next to his bedroll. 

Isith ignored him and pushed her heels into the dirt at her feet. “The puppy doesn’t like to get wet, I see. Poor dear, I forget you’re afraid of wa-“ 

“Please stop speaking.” It was an earnest request. His armor situated to his liking, Vilkas sat down on his bedroll and drew his knees up so that he could rest his arms upon them. 

Across the fire from him, Isith mumbled several ugly names at him and went on to entertain herself by poking the ground around her. 

A few minutes of peaceful silence went by until Isith finally spoke up. 

“Hey, Vilkas?” 

“ _What_?” 

“You’re a terrible, nasty man and I hate you.” She stated flatly. 

Vilkas looked more annoyed than surprised. With a shrug, he replied, “The sentiment is mutual.” 

Isith’s face was plastered with faux alarm. “It is?” Her hands dropped despondently to her sides. “You think I’m a terrible, nasty man?” 

The dark-haired Nord rubbed his face in his hands with a groan, not justifying her with an answer. 

“How is it that your maturity level _decreases_ during times of crisis?” He was genuinely perplexed. 

Isith shrugged. “I’d rather spend time thinking of witty retorts than ponder woefully over life.” 

Vilkas shook his head at her, his eyes shut tight as he tried to understand. “Perhaps if the Brotherhood ever shows up you can distract them with your shining sense of humor.” 

It was Isith’s turn to disagree. “The only member who ever laughed at my jokes was Cicero and he was _insane_. I think it would only prompt Nazir and Babette to kill me quicker. Or maybe draw out the pain…” Her voice wandered off and her green eyes became unfocused. 

Vilkas watched her carefully, some of his own anger at her abating. He wanted to ask her if she was afraid…to try and understand how she could seem so chipper when everything had taken a sudden turn for the worse. If the Dark Brotherhood’s cooperation with the Silver Hand had proved anything, it was that they wanted to hurt her in more ways than one. Killing her shield-siblings was a fine way to start. 

“I’m sorry about Kodlak, you know.” Her words startled him and he looked across the flickering flames at her. 

Vilkas couldn’t stop the bitterness from seeping into his tone. “Sorry won’t bring him back. You should have been there.” 

Her good mood was suddenly gone and she looked away, her green eyes dark and glimmering with moisture. She willed herself to end the tears before they could fall. _I will not cry._

Despite her iron-glad will, she was not strong enough to dam the flood for long. The salty liquid spilled over and flowed freely down her cheeks, stinging the fire-flushed skin. 

“I would take it all back if I could, Vilkas. _Everything_. I would have stayed with the Brotherhood. I should have been braver. I could,” a throaty sob erupted from her chest, “I could have ended this before it began.” 

Vilkas stared at her over the flames. 

Gritting her teeth together, Isith buried her face in her hands, ashamed. She had caused so much pain in her time as a killer – not an assassin, there was no denying it anymore – She was a _killer_. The affliction was in her blood and it pervaded into the world around her, following her everywhere she went. The Companions had suffered a grave blow from the Silver Hand, a group that would not have been able to kick in the mighty doors of Jorrvaskr without the aid of the Dark Brotherhood. 

“I’m so sorry for what I’ve done, my friend.” Her voice wavered in response to the sobs that wracked uncontrollably through her body. 

A pair of strong hands gripped her arms roughly and she was hauled off her feet. 

“Stop crying.” Vilkas shook her forcefully, tightening his fingers around her biceps so that it bruised. 

Isith glared spitefully at him through red-rimmed eyes. She sniffled and tried to struggle in his grip. 

“I said _stop_.” 

“No!” She spat. “Let me alone!” 

Vilkas did anything but. With a force so passionate it bordered on painful, he crushed his mouth to hers. His grip on her loosened and his arms slinked around to tug her close. One hand embedded itself in the back of her hair, forcing her lips to his, while the other trailed down to the small of her back. The salt from her tears coated her lips, tainting Vilkas’ tongue as he brushed it against her mouth. 

Isith whimpered under his firm grasp and tried futilely to free herself. She pushed against his shoulders but could not budge him. Her mind was racing, a mess of strangled thoughts. _I can’t do this. Not with him…oh, Farkas, I’m sorry._ She raged against her body as she felt it begin to betray her. Involuntarily, she relaxed under his grip, her lips finally springing to life hungrily against his. 

Her lips parted to release a hearty moan and Vilkas’ smooth tongue darted in, lapping at her own, begging from her something she desperately told herself not to give. Somewhere in the back of her mind she could not stop herself. She _wanted_ this. Despite the morals, despite Farkas, despite every fiber of her being screaming at her to stop, part of her was _aching_ for Vilkas. That darker side of her soul had always wanted him, she realized as she teased his tongue with her own. 

Vilkas groaned, the sound causing a pleasant vibration from his lips to hers. Breathing heavily, he tore his mouth away, dragging it instead down the angle of her jaw. Unrestrained, Isith dug her nails into the flesh of his back and he nipped at the patch of skin between her ear and the curve of her jaw. 

“Damn you, Vilkas…” She murmured into the heat of his shoulder. She felt the twist of his lips as they smirked in response. 

His lips claimed the tender patch of skin under her ear and she pressed herself against him. He murmured her name between each kiss, his hands running up and down over her body. Isith rocked her hips against his, too dazed by the sudden heat to think clearly. Vilkas took her lips in his once more when he felt her against him. 

“Oh, Isith…” He held her there, his muscles unflinching, and began his assault on her collarbone. He left a hot, damp trail of passion from her neck to the edge of her shirt. 

“Take it off.” He growled. Isith complied, jerking the linen fabric up and over her head and tossing it to the ground. He snatched away the breast band that bound her chest. A husky growl escaped him when the pale mounds sprang free. Isith groaned at the sound, so primal and masculine that it sent a surge of heat straight to her core. 

Vilkas’ hands went to her breasts, callused fingers grazing the rosy buds. Fingers so callused she could have sworn they were Farkas’. 

The woman in his arms froze suddenly, going as cold as the night around them. She cried out, so loud that Vilkas’ was certain he had hurt her. Isith wrenched himself from his arms and stumbled back. Her body was aching but her mind would let her go no further. 

Vilkas stared at her, bewildered, unable to understand what had gone wrong. He looked over her, into her eyes, and found his answer. 

“Isith…” Vilkas’ voice was as soft as she could remember hearing it. 

_By Talos, what have I done?_ Her mind was still reeling from the passion and the emerging thoughts of shame did little to ease her feelings. 

Isith shook her head and moved further away, her legs wobbling under her weight. 

Her voice was hollow when she spoke. “I…I need another bath.” She paid Vilkas little attention and stepped away as he reached for her again. “Bath,” she repeated. She snatched up her shirt and moved swiftly towards the stream, leaving Vilkas standing unsteadily as he watched her leave. 

The water seemed much colder than that it had earlier in the evening. Isith was grateful for it regardless, allowing the flow to wash away the mixture of dirt, sweat, and saliva. She cupped her hands under the surface of the frigid liquid and brought it up to her face. 

She yelped when a pair of searingly hot arms folded around her chest. Vilkas rested his chin in the crook of her neck and sighed. 

Isith went rigid at the contact, folding her arms over her breasts as if he had never seen them before. 

“The water is still cold.” He whispered. 

Isith nodded solemnly. “Colder.” 

“Isith, what happened…I should not have done such a thing.” 

“That bad, huh?” Her voice did not match the sarcasm of her words. Instead, she simply locked her eyes on the clear blue water around her. 

Vilkas shook his head, his stubble brushing uncomfortably against the soft skin of her throat. “No, it was sweeter than any kiss I’ve ever had.” Isith swallowed hard and turned her face away. 

Upset by her reaction, Vilkas cursed suddenly and whirled Isith around to face him. His face, however, showed only concern. With a firm hand, he tilted her chin up so that she was forced to meet his eyes. 

“I have loved you from the moment I saw you, Isith. You infuriating, stubborn, treacherous, beautiful fool, you.” He held her firmly when she tried to look away. “Every part of me aches for you, no matter what you do. I do my best to hate you, to _loathe_ you, and none of it lasts long enough to make these feelings stop -“ 

“Vilkas, please! Don’t say these things!” 

The warrior snarled at her and placed both hands on the sides of her face, forcing her to listen. “No, I will say them now because we will never speak of them again after this moment.” 

Tears welled up in Isith’s eyes. If they were from adoration or hatred, she did not know. 

“My brother loves you, damn him. There are days when I want to hate him as well but I cannot. You have my word that I will not speak to him of what we’ve done here tonight. I give it on one condition, however.” 

“What?” Isith’s voice was breaking and the tears finally began to fall. 

Vilkas pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes, breathing in her scent one last time. When he spoke, his own voice was quivering and unsteady with pained emotion. “You must answer this question for me: If not my brother… _if I had been better_ …would you have chosen me?” 

_Oh Talos, don’t make me answer this! Would I? No, no, oh, Vilkas…no. I could not…it never would have been you._ It took every ounce of strength she had to hold back the painful wail that threatened to rip from her heart. 

Instead, with tender fingers, she reached up and took his face in her hands. He was looking down at her, his eyes searching desperately, lost in some dark place between dread and hope. In the end, she could not break his heart. 

She pressed her lips to his, the salt of her tears running down to mingle with the emotion of the kiss. 

“Yes,” she whispered, “It would have always been you, Vilkas.” It was a lie she couldn’t bear _not_ to tell. _You deserve to rot in Oblivion, Isith_ …the truth echoed in her mind over and over. 

Vilkas held her close, pressing her to him so strongly that she thought he might swallow her whole in his arms. 

“I’ll be content enough with that.” His warm lips pressed against her cheek with such tenderness that she wished from the bottom of her heart that her answer for him was truly yes. He smiled at her and said, “You have my word, I will never mention it again.” The pain and worry was gone from his voice, replaced with a false sense of hope that Isith had cruelly placed in its stead. 

Isith smiled faintly, reluctant to let him go, this man who had gone from enemy to lover to faithful friend in the course of an hour. 

She held him there as he turned to go. Vilkas looked back at her, his blue eyes hopeful. 

“The water’s cold, Vilkas,” she said softly, “Stay and wash with me…just this once.” 

…………………………………………………………………………………… 

Isith had gone straight to bed after rinsing in the stream. She lay down, facing away from Vilkas. For the longest time, she felt his eyes on her as she tried to sleep. When rest finally came to her, it was fitful at best. It was likely what saved their lives. 

Isith tossed restlessly over onto her back, splaying her hand over her eyes to block out the light from the camp fire. To her left, she heard Shadowmere whicker and snort, his hooves loud as they pawed at the ground. Isith murmured something in her sleep, trying to hush the horse. Shadowmere would have none of it and he snorted again. Her attention, though it was drowsy and unfocused, was drawn to that side of the camp. A voice in the darkness, one that would have been inaudible had she been sound asleep, could be heard cursing quietly amongst the bushes. 

Isith’s mind raced. _Bandits? Assassins? Damn, they’ve found us!_ She resisted the urge to reach immediately for her scimitars, which lay an arm’s length away. Instead, she let her fingers trail discreetly down to the edge of her mat, near her thigh, and gripped the pommel of the dagger she had tucked under there. 

With her eyes opened just enough to keep track of the shadowy figure as it made its way around Shadowmere, who was chewing furiously as the leather that bound him to the tree, she noticed that the intruder was indeed wearing Dark Brotherhood armor. The studs of the black and red leather glinted in the firelight as the assassin crept around. Isith shut her eyes completely, allowing her other senses to take over. The assassin came to stand over her, hovering beside her hips. She heard the sliding of metal as a blade was released from its sheath. He would not stab her, she was sure, as it was too messy and left too much room for error. Her mouth would have to be covered and muffled as death would not be instant. No, he planned on cutting her throat. 

Sure enough she felt the shift in the air as the blade was placed over her neck. In a voice so quiet he could hardly be heard, the assassin uttered, “To Sithis with you, traitor.” 

Isith struck then. Her eyes flew open and one hand went to secure the assassins wrist while the other whipped her hidden dagger around. The tip went to the man’s throat and skewered through the skin. It was over in moments. Gurgling and wide-eyed, the assassin slumped forward and Isith shoved him away. She scrambled to her feet and shouted for Vilkas. 

The Nord sat up, rubbing his eyes frantically as he looked around. 

“It’s the Dark Brotherhood!” Isith called to him. As if to prove her point, an arrow whizzed by her head and buried itself in a tree trunk nearby. Vilkas scrambled to his feet, snatching his sword as he went. 

Two more assassins, a man and a woman, came dashing out of the trees. Both Isith and Vilkas ran to meet them. Isith slid into the woman and knocked her to the ground while Vilkas crossed blades with the male, whose size revealed him to probably be a Bosmer. Vilkas’ greater strength caused the much smaller man to stagger to the side. The elf was quick, however, and recovered before Vilkas could swing again. He jumped forward and sliced across the warrior’s collarbone, grazing the skin enough to draw blood. 

Several yards away, Isith leapt onto the woman she had knocked to the ground. The woman was inexperienced and panicked, batting her arms widely to keep Isith at bay. When dealing with assassins it was best to finish them quickly, Isith knew, and she grew tired of trying to get a clean blow in. Instead, she shoved her knife hilt deep into the woman’s exposed side and wrenched the blade out again. The woman howled and her hands came down long enough for Isith to severe her jugular. 

As the woman died beneath her, a frightening whinny from the woods told Isith that Shadowmere had broken free and had discovered a forth attacker. _Gods, I love that horse. Good boy!_ Isith smiled to herself despite the skirmish around her. She moved quickly to help Vilkas and reached him just as he managed to decapitate the struggling Bosmer. 

Vilkas’ eyes flashed to Isith and he shook his head, “That damn elf was quick!” 

Isith laughed, “You were just sleeping.” 

The man started to say something else when two more figures burst through the trees towards them. A Dark Elf was running for his life with Shadowmere hot on his heels. The horse drove the man straight for the waiting Companions. Vilkas stepped out of the way and Isith braced herself, gripping the dagger tightly. The Dark Elf tried to switch directions but Shadowmere snapped at him, taking a chunk out of the man’s armor. The Dunmer stumbled forward and came to a stop just a few feet in front of Isith. She strode forward and fisted the man’s dark hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. 

Vilkas looked away as the other Companion raked her blade over the man’s neck. When he heard the man slump over, he looked back at her. 

“Was that all of them?” 

Isith did not answer immediately. Her eyes danced around the edge of the woods, searching for any trace of movement. 

Satisfied that they were alone once more, Isith nodded. “I believe it wa-“ 

The tell-tale whoosh of air beside her warned her that she was wrong. An arrow flew by, missing Isith by several feet. She had not been its intended target. Vilkas sensed the projectile too late and was knocked off his feet when the arrow struck him in the shoulder. Cursing, he pried himself off the ground and stared down at the shaft. Isith rushed over to him and was relieved to find that the shot had not been well-placed. It had missed any vital points and joints and was buried in the muscle between Vilkas’ shoulder and collarbone. 

“I’m fine!” Vilkas snarled through clenched teeth, “Find whoever is left.” He did not miss the look of fear in Isith’s eyes as she looked down at him. Isith nodded and turned away. Shadowmere trotted over to stand guard in front of Vilkas. It was a touching gesture from the horse and Isith would be sure to reward it later. She let her hands graze the stallion’s neck as she stalked by, weapon drawn. 

“Where are you?” she taunted. “Are you afraid to face your Listener?” 

The only reply was silence. 

Another arrow was loosed from that invisible bow and it landed in the ground between Isith’s feet. She fought the urge to jump back, perfectly aware that she was at the disadvantage. _Either the remaining assassin is a terrible shot or he is toying with me...likely the latter_. In anger, she stomped down on the shaft at her feet and smiled when it snapped in two. 

Suddenly, there was movement in the shadows ahead of her and the assassin stepped forward. Isith paled when she saw him. 

“Nazir?” He couldn’t have heard her. Her voice was barely a whisper. 

The Redguard grinned from behind his grey hood, his dark eyes flashing to meet hers. A new wave of dread washed over Isith and she stepped back, glancing worriedly at Vilkas. The Nord was still on the ground, tugging unsuccessfully at the arrow in his shoulder. 

Nazir followed Isith’s gaze and his smile widened. “You’ll want to tell him not to do that, Listener. It will speed the rate at which the poison enters his system.” 

Vilkas’ attention perked up then. He had not noticed the appearance of the other assassin. His blue eyes narrowed on the Redguard and he climbed to his feet. 

Isith snapped at him. “Don’t move, Vilkas.” 

Vilkas growled at her, “He’s bluffing. I feel fine.” His fingers remained curled around the shaft. 

Nazir chuckled, shaking his head. Isith glared at him. She doubted the Redguard was bluffing at all. In his shoes, she would have done the same thing. Poison ensured a slow death, forcing her to watch as Vilkas suffered. From an assassin’s point of view, it was as good as a direct blow. It would wound her mentally, not intended to kill, and was enough to provoke a reaction from her. 

“I have to give you credit, sister,” Nazir said, still smiling, “You fell in with a strong crowd.” 

Isith cringed at the sight. Nazir frightened her, he always had. He enjoyed killing more than most, even among the Dark Brotherhood. 

“Enough with the games, Nazir. You and I can end this now.” She felt Vilkas’ blood coated fingers wrap around her wrist. She glanced at him and was surprised to see him shaking his head. Her brows perked up and she studied his face. Though he did not speak, his words were painted across his features. He did not want her to do this. 

Nazir was sharp enough that he did not miss the emotion with which Vilkas gazed at the Listener. The Redguard sneered once more. “It seems I chose my target wisely.” 

Isith snapped her eyes back at him to glare, brushing Vilkas off as she did so. “You’re the only who will die here, Nazir.” Her eyes glazed over with unbridled hatred and before anyone could move she reared back with the dagger and launched it at her former second-in-command. It grazed the man’s thigh and Nazir recoiled, stumbling back. Isith charged at him, leaving Vilkas to shout after her. 

Her fist collided with the Redguard’s jaw just as he was recovering from the blow. She wrapped her fingers in the fabric of his hood and held him as she slammed her knee into his nose. Grunting, Nazir shoved her away. The dagger had done less damage than Isith had hoped and did little to slow Nazir’s reaction time. His hands shot out to clap over Isith’s ears and she was barely able to knock them away in time. With one leg, he lashed out at her, landing a painful kick to her stomach. Isith doubled over and cried out when Nazir reached to grab her throat. 

He forced her down, driving his fist into her face. She braced her knees against the ground and lashed one fist out to the assassin’s unprotected groin. Nazir howled and stepped back. Isith scrambled away, panting, one hand against her bruised cheek. 

Nazir’s eyes found hers, meeting her gaze with a ferocity that reminded her of the dragon she had killed. He sneered, his bloodied lips pulling back to reveal his teeth. 

“Y-you’ll want to look in on your friend over there, Isith.” 

Isith scowled at him but allowed herself a moment to glance back in Vilkas’ direction. She cried out when she saw him. In the moments that had passed since she left his side, his condition had worsened. The arrow had indeed been poisoned. 

He was lying on his back, groaning and writhing in pain. His legs kicked out to drive his heels into the ground around him. Isith looked back at Nazir, who was already limping away. 

“I’ll kill you!” she screamed after him. She took several steps in his direction but froze in her tracks when she heard another pained wail from her friend. Frantically, she looked between the two men. Nazir was wounded, his back to her…she could end him here and now. But if she took the time to fight him once more she risked Vilkas’ life in the process. A flurry of curses flew from her mouth as she made her decision. 

Damn her soul to Oblivion for eternity, she did not care. Raw fury took hold of her and she turned her back on her companion. _Nazir dies now. I will run no longer._ Isith charged forward until she reached the Redguard. Surprised that she chose to pursue him, he tried to turn but Isith was quicker. She slammed one foot into the joint behind his knee and he went down. Isith followed him, Vilkas’ pained cries ringing in her ears as she forced Nazir onto his back. One particularly loud wail cut through the air, catching even Nazir’s attention and the Redguard spared a glance at the warrior. 

A look of fear, something that the assassin had not felt in years, flooded his features, twisting them out of proportion. 

“He’s dying!” Nazir cried as Isith’s hands gripped his head. 

“I do not care.” Isith bent low over the man’s ears, her voice snarling and primal. “So are you.” 

With one quick motion, she snapped her hands around, twisting Nazir’s head as she went. His neck cracked with a sickening snap and his body went limp beneath her. Isith sat back. She closed her eyes. 

Aloud, she whispered, “He’s dead.” It had been a long time since she felt so relieved. 

The night air had grown quiet around her and she embraced it, breathing it in deeply. Even Vilkas’ cries had grown silent. 

_Vilkas_ . 

Isith’s eyes snapped open. She scrambled off of the dead assassin, Nazir suddenly forgotten, and moved with a speed she did not know she possessed. She came to rest at Vilkas’ side, sliding to her knees. Her hands shaking, she reached out to touch the Nord’s face. His skin was clammy. 

“Vilkas!” she shrieked, her mind a jumble of terrified thoughts. 

He did not respond. 

“Open your eyes, wolf!” 

She leaned down and hovered just over his nose and mouth, desperately searching for any sign of life. A frantic cry of panic tore from her lips. 

Vilkas was not breathing. 


	16. Chapter 16

Brynjolf awoke with a start. Shouting, angry and surprised, echoed through the stone halls of the Ratway. The familiar lilt of one of the voices, detectable regardless of the emotion, told him exactly who was making such a fuss. He shot out of his bed and rubbed his eyes with one hand while he snatched up his shirt with another. What the guildmaster was doing in the Cistern in the wee hours of the morning, he did not know. He didn’t much care either. 

Tugging the heavy material over his head, he hurried out of his room and down the short hallway to the Cistern. Sure enough, a familiar blonde head bobbed up and down, disappearing every few seconds as the mass of thieves surrounding her scurried about. She was shouting orders left and right and had Rune and Thrynn on either side of her. As he strode across the damp stone walkway, Brynjolf noticed as the two thieves lifted a dangling figure from Isith’s shoulders and proceeded to the nearest bed. 

Isith wavered back and forth, so unsteady that Niruin had to reach out and catch her. The blonde Nord turned her eyes up at the elf and thanked him. A moment later she resumed her shouting. 

Byrnjolf raised his voice so that he could be heard over her. “What in Oblivion is going on here?” 

The woman whirled around to face him, her knees wobbling at the stress of the movement. Brynjolf skidded to a halt mid-step. The woman in front of him was not the same one he had left in Whiterun only a few weeks earlier. She was dead on her feet, her skin pallid and her eyes dark from lack of sleep. Despite the weariness he saw there, a raging fire burned in their depths, burning as cold frost dragon’s flame. His eyes traveled briefly over the scarred side of her face. _What in Nocturnal’s name has happened to her?_

She greeted him curtly with a nod. “I’m taking over for the moment, Brynjolf.” 

The auburn-haired thief opened his mouth to speak once again but found himself facing Isith’s back as she turned away. She hurried over to the cot where Rune and Thrynn had placed the man Isith had brought with her. Brynjolf, not one to be so easily put off, followed close at her heels. When he reached the bedside, he instantly recognized the man as one of the Companions. _The brother of her…lover, if I’m not mistaken_. The thief’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man more closely. The younger man was in rough shape, there was no denying it. Blood was crusted over the tattered shoulder of his shirt, which was torn open enough to reveal a nasty looking wound. It had been sloppily healed, probably by an amateur…Isith, if he was to guess. 

Isith knelt down beside the bed and glanced over to Thrynn, who had moved aside so that Rune could get a better look at the man in question. “Go get Delvin.” She ordered. The brawny thief nodded at her and jogged off toward the Ragged Flagon. 

Rune, who probably had the most experience in healing out of all the thieves, was busy poking at the Companion’s shoulder, his head turning this way and that. 

“Has he been poisoned?” the Imperial thief asked. 

Isith nodded gravely. “Yes,” she said, “He was struck by an arrow. I’ve done what I could to stabilize him-“ 

“You did a terrible job, if you don’t mind my saying, guildmaster.” Rune glanced at her apologetically. 

Isith brushed off the remark, too exhausted to take offence. “Well, I’d say I did damn well given that he had stopped breathing at one point. It took every healing potion I had just to get him this far.” Suddenly her eyes flashed up and her lips twisted into a snarl. “Where in Oblivion is Mallory?” 

Brynjolf nudged her from behind. He met her fiery gaze steadily. “What do you need him for, lass?” 

Isith’s expression softened for just a moment. “The poison is Dark Brotherhood-make. I was hoping Delvin might have encountered it before.” 

A heavily accented voice spoke up before Brynjolf could say anything else. Delvin was striding across the room with Thrynn close behind. The bald man nodded at Isith, “Hello to you, too, guildmaster.” 

He pushed his way through the throng of thieves that had gathered around the bed. Brynjolf, whose mind had been caught up on the woman in front of him, finally came to his senses and ordered everyone back to their business. Only Rune and Delvin remained. 

Delvin cast Isith a weary glance. “I never dealt much in the nasty side of their business, I’m afraid. I don’t think I can help.” 

Isith scowled at him, gripping the edge of the bed to keep from launching herself at the man. “Surely you know something!” 

Delvin threw up his hands and cut his eyes at Brynjolf before looking back at the angry woman before him. “Take a breath, girl! Occasionally Astrid would ask me to acquire some rather…rare and sometimes illegal ingredients. I always assumed they were for poisons,” he looked grimly down at Vilkas, “Poisons like this.” 

The master thief nodded, her head bobbing up and down slowly as if each movement took extra effort. “Stay here and go over everything with Rune.” Her green gaze fell on the Imperial, who had removed Vilkas’ shirt and was studying the wound more closely. The area around the shoulder had turned a sour purple color, the skin puckering unnaturally. 

“Save him, Rune.” 

“Guildmaster, wait-“ Rune stood for a moment and came around the bed to stand in front of Isith. “Has he awoken since he was struck?” 

Isith said that he had not. Rune’s lips pressed into a thin line and his brow furrowed. “I’m not making any promises but I’ll do what I can.” 

Isith reached up one hand to touch the man gently on the shoulder. “Thank you, Rune.” 

All this time, Brynjolf continued to stand back and watch, his eyes dancing from one person to the next, always coming back to rest on Isith. When she had finished speaking with Rune, she propped herself against the edge of the cot. Brynjolf sighed and reached out to touch her gently. “You need rest, lass,” he said, “Or else you’ll be the one dying.” 

Green eyes flicked up to meet his, so much darker than his own. “I’ll sleep once I know he’s alright.” She snapped. 

Across from her, Rune shook his head, eying Brynjolf as he spoke, “It will be awhile yet, Isith. Go with Brynjolf and get some rest. I’ll come get you if anything changes.” 

The Nord woman remained rooted to her spot on the bed. “Damned stubborn woman!” Brynjolf grumbled. Growing tired of arguing with her, he snatched her up quickly and tucked her under his arm so that she could not escape. Clasping her firmly at his side, he led her, cursing and mumbling, away to his room. When they reached the privacy of his chambers, he turned her loose and closed the door behind them. Isith stepped away, shooting him a fiercely unappreciative look as she did so. 

Brynjolf almost smiled. He would have if he didn’t think she would kill him for it. Swiftly, he closed the distance between them and came to a stop just a few inches in front of her. 

“What has happened, lass? Why have you brought a Companion here?” 

Isith looked away, unconsciously tilting the scarred side of her face so that he could not see it. She sighed; it was a heavy sound, burdened by guilt and rage. “Nazir is dead, Brynjolf. I killed him.” 

Brynjolf did what he could to restrain his surprise. His eyebrows rose up to his hairline. “The assassin?” Isith nodded. Brynjolf jerked his head toward the door and asked, “So, the Nord out there…I suppose that’s Nazir’s doing?” 

“No.” Isith’s voice wavered. “That…is my fault. Nazir shot him, not a critical blow, and I chose to ignore it.” Her eyes squeezed shut and she turned her face to the ground. “I knew the arrow could have been poisoned. Damn it, Nazir even told me so!” Her lids fluttered open once more, revealing a watery gaze. “And I turned my back on him anyway, Brynjolf.” 

Brynjolf sucked in a deep breath and let his arms fall around the woman’s shoulders. He tugged her to him, satisfied, when he felt her bury her face in his shoulder. “We make mistakes, lass, all of us.” He told her quietly. It was a bull-shit answer, he knew, but it was all he could say. 

Isith pulled away, sniffling. Her tears had not fallen but the threat was eminent. “No,” she whispered, “I…it was like I was the old me again, Brynjolf. All I knew was that Nazir needed to die for _me_ to feel safe. I knew what I was risking and I did it anyway.” 

“Would you do it again?” 

Isith turned away completely, pushing his arms away. She leaned over Brynjolf’s dresser, her hands pressing into the wood. “Yes.” She replied quietly. 

Brynjolf had expected as much. From the day he met her he knew that she possessed a heart of gold, something rare in times such as these, and yet he had always sensed the ruthlessness that lay beneath. It was more of healthy sense of self-preservation, really, but Brynjolf understood that such a thing could lead a person to kill without regard for the moment. Whether or not Isith realized this, he wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered. 

He approached her quietly and spun her around with care. “Lay down and get some sleep, lass. You need it.” 

“I don’t think I can, Bryn. I’ve carried Vilkas all the way from the Pale and I still don’t think I can sleep.” 

He shushed her and reached to brush a dirty lock of hair behind her ear. _It’s getting longer_ , he noticed. “It’s not an option. Lie down. I won’t leave you, I promise.” 

He smiled when he saw her lips twist in the faintest of grins. “Well, you can’t get in bed with me.” She said quietly. 

Brynjolf chuckled. “Of course not, lass. My luck that Companion would be up and walking around by morning, just waiting to tell his brother that you had been unfaithful.” 

Something Brynjolf could not read flashed across Isith’s face at his words. _More guilt?_ He couldn’t be sure. Instead, Isith slid back onto the bed and kicked off her boots. 

“Good night, Bryn.” She whispered as she slipped under the covers. Brynjolf went to set in a chair near the dresser, crossing his legs and arms and leaning back so that he could keep his eyes on the woman. She was asleep within moments, her features easing into an expression of the peacefulness that came with rest. Outside his room, Brynjolf could still hear Delvin and Rune speaking amongst one another. The quiet murmur of their voices combined with Isith’s steady breaths was enough to lull the auburn-haired Nord into his own dreams. 

……………………………………………………………………. 

There were no games this time. No time wasted. Instead, Isith found herself standing amidst the ruins of the Falkreath Sanctuary. Flames licked at the bodies, both soldier and assassin, and burnt the flesh so that she could almost smell it. Subconsciously she wondered if she were to touch the fire, would it burn her? Instead of finding out, Isith crept closer to the pool of water in the center of the room and went to stand so that she was up to her ankles in the warm liquid. 

Despite the flames and crackling sounds that pervaded the air, she could hear the low reverberations of amused laughter coming down from the upper level of the sanctuary. One particular stench of death invaded her nostrils, much more tangible than burning flesh around her. It was an old smell, one of dust and rotten bone. It was the same odor than she experienced the first time she opened the Nightmother’s crypt. 

Isith turned around, her eyes coming to rest on a figure emerging from the top of the stairs. Her gaze widened momentarily at the woman clad in black robes. A dark hood was pulled so low over her face that none of her features could be seen. It did not make a difference, Isith knew it was the Nightmother without question. 

“Come to stab me again?” she called. 

The Nightmother shook her head, the folds of the cloth twisting as she moved her head. What expression she wore, Isith could not tell. As the Nightmother drew closer, coming to a stop at the bottom step, Isith grew more leery. She did not move from her spot in the water even as the flames seemed to whip up and spread nearer. 

“You killed Nazir.” The Nightmother’s voice was softer than usual, almost gentle at the statement. It was not the hollow, empty sound that Isith had come to despise. 

The Listener nodded. One black-booted foot took a step down and the dead woman came to be level with Isith. Slowly, almost casually, she came forward and stopped at the edge of the pool, the bottom of her robes just beyond the water. Behind her, the flames licked higher, only a yard or two away. 

“You should be careful,” Isith mumbled, “You’ll catch fire. Old bones make good tender for burning.” 

The Nightmother did not respond. Isith grew wearier and checked her side for her dagger. “What do you want this time?” she asked. 

“To tell you once more that you cannot escape me. You cannot hide from me-“ 

Isith interrupted her, snapping, “My blood is your blood, my life is your life, yes, I heard you the first time.” 

Under her cloak, the Nightmother hissed at the Listener’s impudence. “You are a fool-hearted woman to think you can best me, much less our Dread Father.” 

“Oh, I don’t intend to just best you,” Isith scowled, “I intend to wipe the Brotherhood from the face of Skyrim. And trust me when I say I’m doing a damn good job of it so far.” Her courage bolstered as her temper rose and she finally stepped out of the water, coming nose to nose with the unholy matron. 

“You should not be so confident, dear Listener. Do you really think Sithis would let his children be so easily destroyed? By you?” 

Isith frowned at her, her features twisting something akin to a snarl. 

The Nightmother continued, this time with a warning, “Plan as you will, Listener. Something is coming for you, you’ll see it soon enough.” 

Isith’s brow furrowed, her eyebrows knitting together. “That’s it?” she asked. 

The Nightmother said nothing and took several steps backward until the heat of the flames caught the edge of her robes. The fire lit the dark cloth and quickly engulfed the matron’s bottom half. Isith recoiled, lifting a hand up to shield herself from the sudden heat. As disturbing as the sight was, she could not bear to look away. The Nightmother was calm as the flames consumed her and she brought her hands up to pull down her hood, revealing just a glimpse of her face before the fire engulfed her completely. The withered skin of the corpse Isith was so familiar with was no more, in its place, as the flames licked higher, was Isith’s own visage. Calm and scarred with green eyes as empty as the void, the Nightmother smiled the faintest of smiles as she watched Isith reel backwards into the water. 

She was gone moments later, her body melting into the orange glow, leaving Isith to gape at the sight before her. 

………………………………………………………………. 

Thankfully, when Isith awoke, she did not scream or cry out as she had the first time she dreamed of the Nightmother. She was grateful for it as she didn’t think Brynjolf’s nerves could take it. She climbed quietly out of bed, careful not to wake the man sleeping across the room from her. She took a moment to look at him, letting her eyes wander over his sleeping form. He looked peaceful, which was more than she could say for herself. 

She slipped out of the room and into the Cistern. It was early, she realized, and everyone was still in bed. Even Rune was propped against the wall by Vilkas’ cot, snoring soundly. Isith took the opportunity to look in on her friend and walked quietly over to where he lay. He, too, was sound asleep, though not by choice. His dark brow was heavy with sweat and Isith reached down to wipe away the moisture with the sleeve of her shirt. He did not stir when she touched him and she frowned. _Oh, Vilkas…what have I done to you? I’m sorry you had to pay such a price._ Her eyes softened at the thought. _Perhaps, if I could go back I would let Nazir walk away. Kill him another day._ The idea did not linger long in her mind; she knew that killing Nazir had been necessary. _No matter the price._

Her hand drew away suddenly and she scolded herself. Whatever she was becoming, she did not like it. Even if she survived this spat with the Dark Brotherhood, surely it would not be worth turning into a monster, someone so callus she would sacrifice the lives of those around her for the sake of her own. _No. I will not let myself go that far. It was not so long ago when I swore I would hand myself over to them before any harm came to the Companions_ . She looked away. _It seems time changes things._

In her reverie, she accidentally nudged Rune with the toe of her boot and he stirred. The Imperial’s toffee-colored eyes fluttered open and focused blearily on Isith. “You’re up early, guildmaster,” he said with a yawn. He stretched out his arms, careful not to strike Vilkas as he did so, and smiled when he heard his back pop. “I seem to remember you being quite the late riser.” 

“I wasn’t sleeping well. Worried, I guess.” 

Rune nodded and pushed himself off the floor, frowning when he realized his trousers were damp from the wet stone. “Well,” he said, fingering the soggy material, “There hasn’t been much change, I’m afraid. Delvin was able to provide some insight as to what the poison might be made of but we can’t be sure.” 

“He’s not dying though?” Isith’s eyes were hopeful. 

“I don’t know enough to say. As of now, he’s stable. However, if the poison remains in his system much longer there is no telling what it might do.” 

Isith narrowed her eyes at the thief. It was not something she would have normally done. Other than Brynjolf, Rune was favorite among the guild. “Are you telling me you can’t save him, Rune?” 

The thief sighed and raised his hands in front of his chest defensively. “You brought him here for a reason, Isith. We’ll do what we can.” 

The woman murmured something to low to be heard and ran her hands through her hair. “I’m sorry,” she said. Suddenly, an idea struck her. “Perhaps there is someone else who can help. We still have contacts at the College of Winterhold, do we not?” 

Rune nodded. “Yes…” 

“Contacts who owe us favors, yes?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“Well, are Delvin and Vex still running that knock-off skooma for one of the wizards there?” 

Rune’s eyes widened. “Wait – they’re doing what?” 

Isith shook her head and shushed him. “Never mind, it still gives us some leverage with them. Tell Vex to write one of those intimidating letters she’s so good at and have her threaten to expose the shipments unless they send a certain mage to us. Evrim is his name. He’s the best healer I’ve ever come across.” 

The thief in front of her looked a little skeptical. “Is threatening them really the best way to ask for a healer?” 

“Hush!” she scolded, “I’m in my master-thief place of mind. In all seriousness though, I want you to do whatever it takes to see that Vilkas makes it through this.” Her eyes fell down across the comatose Nord, warming to such an extent that it was hard for Rune not to notice. He told her, “I’ll see that he does.” 

Isith gave the man an appreciative smile. “Good. Now, go find yourself something to eat. I want to sit with him a while.” She didn’t have to ask twice and Rune was gone. 

Alone now, save for the soundly sleeping figures around her, Isith eased herself down onto the edge of the bed. _Vilkas_ , she thought as she reached out to stroke the stubble of his chin, _you had better open those eyes again, wolf_. Her lips heated as she remembered the way he had kissed her and she let her thumb graze over his mouth. She did not think of herself as a cruel person but neither had she ever been particularly honest, yet, filling a man with such false hope was unspeakable. _I will regret it ‘til the day I die. Royal pain in my arse or not, not even a man like you deserves such lies Vilkas_. 

She lifted her eyes up long enough to spy a bowl of water on the bedside table and she reached for it. A rag lay beside it, as clean as could be expected of anything in the Ratway, and she snatched up. She dunked it into the cool liquid and rang out the excess and brought it tenderly over to Vilkas’ face. She dabbed the wet cloth all along his forehead and down to his neck. Each time her bare fingers would graze the clammy skin, she would shiver. _Do I really feel nothing for him at all? He’s handsome. He’s infuriating. He’s almost bright enough to match my witty banter. But_ …her lips turned down in a soft frown, _Gods, he just isn’t Farkas_. 

It suddenly occurred to her that she had never sorted out the reason _why_ she was so attached to the other twin. Sure enough, she had spent more time with Vilkas. Then again, if time was all it took to fall in love she should be head over heels for Brynjolf. No, the other Nord gave her something that no one else could. Brynjolf had his charms and Vilkas possessed a red-hot passion she thought would burn her alive but neither of these men gave her the easy peace she felt when she was near Farkas. 

She scolded herself, _Oh, for shame, Isith!_ _Now is certainly not the time for daydreaming_. Indeed, she had so much to do that it felt as if the world itself decided it wanted to piggyback on her shoulders. 

Hopefully, killing Nazir had bought her some time with the Dark Brotherhood. Even more hopefully was the chance that the Nightmother was bluffing. _Hmph…doubt it. Old hag_. Not to mention she still had to return Wuuthrad to the Companions. _And thus the problem presents itself. I can go back to Jorrvaskr or_ , she let the rag rest on the Nord’s cheek as she thought, _I can stay by Vilkas’ side, as he did with me_. 

“I abandoned you once, didn’t I?” she whispered quietly. 

She tossed the rag back onto the table and ran her fingers through the warrior’s hair. Part of her ached to see his eyes fly open to glare at her only to proceed the impending chiding she would surely receive for letting him get shot in the first place. Not to mention the fact that she had brought him quite literally into a den of thieves. If he ever did wake up, Isith doubted she would ever hear the end of it. She couldn’t stop herself from grinning down at him. “I bet you’ll revise that love confession for sure.” 

“Love confession?” 

Isith whirled around to find Brynjolf standing behind her, his arms folded over his chest. “Maybe. Do you have one for me too, Bryn? If you say yes, I swear I’ll drown you in the Cistern.” 

The freshly awoken Nord smiled at her and shook his head. “No, lass, I could never love a woman who made me sleep in a chair all night.” His emerald eyes twinkled in the dim light, hinting that he was lying through his teeth. 

Isith sighed and turned around to face Vilkas once again. “I have to leave him,” she said solemnly, “Jorrvaskr needs me.” 

Brynjolf stepped closer to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I’m sure Vilkas here would understand. He seems like the type of lad who is all bound up in that for-the-greater-good-and-duty nonsense.” 

“You’d be surprised, I think. He’s a good man, Bryn. I hate to abandon him again.” 

“Aw,” the thief huffed, “We’ll look out for him. Well, as long as you promise he won’t wake up and try to take our heads off.” 

“As long as he gets up out of this bed,” she said with a smirk, “I’m willing to let him take a swing at anybody.” Isith stood up then and moved to Brynjolf’s side. “I’m going to pack my things and be on my way.” 

Brynjolf brought a hand up and let his fingers caress her face tenderly. He smiled to himself when he saw she did not turn away. “Take care of yourself, darling. I’ll make sure this fellow is up and kicking as soon as possible.” 

Isith pushed herself up onto her tip-toes and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of the thief’s mouth. “I know you will, Bryn.” She brushed past him and headed for his chamber to gather her things. 


	17. Chapter 17

Three days later, Isith reached Whiterun. Leaving Vilkas behind had stung more than she thought it would and she only did so after acquiring promises from both Delvin and Brynjolf that, if needed, they would pull the necessary strings to bring in specialists from the mages at Winterhold. Upon arriving, she left Shadowmere at the stables and began the long walk up to Jorrvaskr, the fragments of Wuuthrad wrapped carefully in a bag at her side. She did not expect a warm welcome. 

Much to her surprise, she received one. As soon as she stepped into the mead hall, a jingling voice called out to her. “Listener!” 

Isith froze mid-step, nearly stumbling down the stairs. She spotted Cicero sitting cross-legged on the main dining table. Aela was nearby, her dagger placed on the table where she could reach it at a moment’s notice. She did not look amused. 

Isith floundered for a long moment as she tried to figure out why Cicero was in Jorrvaskr…still breathing. The mad assassin popped up from the table, prompting Aela to grab the dagger. Isith saw that the Imperial’s hands had been securely bound by both rope and chain. _Well, that explains why he isn’t dead. Nice to see they’re taking precautions_. As much as she did not hate Cicero, she still wasn’t sure she trusted him. 

“Do something with this fool!” Aela barked. Cicero snarled at her. 

He turned to Isith, his lips pushed out into a pout. “This woman is worse than the little vampire, Listener! She thinks Cicero wants to kill you.” 

Isith couldn’t resist the need to bury her face in the palms of her hands. She didn’t think she could take many more surprises. Looking up, her fingers moving to pinch the bridge of her nose as she spoke, she said, “I suppose you came here to warn me, Cicero.” 

The assassin nodded gleefully. “Yes! Though the Listener has been gone for a rather long while…but she is not dead so it seems I have made it time! The Redguard plans to kill her, just so she knows.” 

Aela looked over to Isith, scowling. “He has been telling us this since he- wait,” her eyes narrowed, “Where is Vilkas?” 

_Oh boy_ …Isith swallowed hard. “Vilkas is in Riften.” 

Cicero piped up, “Cicero does not know this _Vilkas_? Should he, Listener?” 

“Shut up, fool!” Aela snapped and slammed her dagger back on the table. She stood up and rounded on Isith, striding over to her. “What do you mean he’s in Riften?” 

Isith glared at her. “He was wounded. I have some friends there who are taking care of him.” 

“Wounded?” Aela’s eyes were murderous. 

“Yes. By Nazir, Cicero was telling you the truth.” 

The Keeper overheard this exchange and clapped with delight. “See! Cicero was right!” 

Isith nodded at him. “Yes,” she said, “Nazir found us at camp just on the border of the Pale. He managed to hit Vilkas with a poisoned arrow.” 

Across the room, Cicero mumbled, “Not the flesh rotting kind, Cicero hopes.” 

_He is not making this better_ . Isith narrowed her eyes at him but continued, “I left Vilkas with the people who I thought could tend to him best. They have experience in dealing with the…darker side of things.” 

Aela reached out to shove her before she could react. Isith was knocked backward by the force of the woman’s push and her head smacked painfully back against a nearby wooden beam. “It did not occur to you to bring our own brother _here_?” Aela growled, “Instead, you chose to leave him with a group of strangers we know nothing about?” 

Isith glowered at the woman, retorting, “I know them, Aela! Vilkas will be fine, I assure you.” 

“Your promises mean nothing here, whelp!” Aela snapped bitterly. 

Cicero moseyed over to investigate the scene that was unfolding before him. He waddled up to Isith and leaned in to whisper, not so quietly, in her ear, “Cicero could kill the angry Nord if the Listener so desires.” 

“No, no, Cicero. Thank you but that will not be necessary.” Isith barely had time to reply before another voice joined the conversation. 

“Aela!” Both women whirled around to see who dared interrupt their estrogen-fueled argument. Isith’s heart skipped a beat when she saw Farkas standing across the room. “Njada is looking for you.” The big Nord explained curtly. He would not meet Isith’s eyes. 

Aela scowled and started to move away, jerking Cicero along with her. “You’re coming with me. I’m not leaving the two of you together.” 

Fleetingly, Isith remembered that she had not told Cicero of Nazir’s demise. The sight of Farkas striding towards her, however, quickly wiped the thought from her mind. The burly Nord came to stand just a few feet from her, looking everywhere but at her face. 

“Farkas, I-” 

“Is Vilkas hurt badly?” He looked at the floor, shuffling his feet nervously. It was an odd movement for such a large man. 

Isith sighed. “Yes,” she replied. This was not how she wanted to tell him. “I left him with Brynjolf in Riften.” 

“Brynjolf?” Farkas perked up as he remembered the name. “That’s your friend. The sneaky, red-haired one.” 

_Well, I guess that’s one way to put it_ . She nodded and said, “I’m having him call in some favors. I felt that they had a better chance at helping Vilkas than anyone in Whiterun.” 

Ever so gently, to the point of cautiousness, Farkas stretched his hand out to touch Isith’s elbow. “If you think that is what’s best then I understand.” Isith tensed at the unexpected contact and Farkas mistook her movement for flinching. He snatched his hand away and looked down at the floor once again. 

Isith started to speak, “Farkas, I –“ 

He cut her off. “It’s good to have you back. I’ve got some things to do so...” he fished for words to finish his sentence. 

Isith realized, rather disappointedly, that he was trying to exit the conversation as gracefully as he could. She nodded at him and motioned to the sack at her side. “I have to get this up to Eorlund anyway.” 

Farkas grunted in response and turned awkwardly on heels to leave. Isith watched him go, more acutely aware than ever that all was not well within Jorrvaskr’s walls. Aela and the others could hate her until the end of time but if all her encounters with Farkas were bound to be so distant and cold, Isith wasn’t sure how she could manage. With a grumble, she tossed the bag over her shoulder and headed outside to the Skyforge. She found Eorlund at his grinding stone. The sound of a blade being sharpened sent a high-pitched wail through the air. 

Isith raised her voice so that she could be heard over the grinding. “Eorlund!” 

The older man glanced up and saw her, his grey eyebrows rising, but he did not stop what he was doing. “You’re back.” He was a blunt man without a doubt. 

“I brought you something.” Isith held out the sack. 

Eorlund did not look up from his work. “What is it?” 

Isith answered him simply. “Wuuthrad,” she said. 

At that, Eorlund stopped and placed the half-finished sword aside. “You and the boy found it then?” Neither his eyes nor his words revealed any hint of surprise. He took the bag carefully from Isith’s hands and peered inside with an expression akin to reverence. His silver head bobbed up and down when he saw that it was indeed Wuuthrad. 

“You did well, girl.” Isith smiled at his words; they reminded her of Kodlak. The old Harbinger would likely have said much the same thing. 

“I’m glad someone approves.” She turned to go then. Eorlund was not one to linger in conversation any longer than he had to. He said nothing else to her as she left and, with her back to him, she did not catch the pleased smile he cast her way. 

Down in the training yard, Aela was bashing in Njada’s shield. Cicero stood several yards away, his head tilting this way and that and his lips moving to an unheard tune. Isith went to stand beside him. She told him bluntly, “Nazir is dead, Cicero.” 

At first, the assassin jumped as if he had not noticed her and he blinked at her until her words sank in. “The Redguard is dead, you say? That’s delightful!” He squealed. “We should throw a party! Now the Listener only has the vampire child to deal with. The Nightmother will be so pleased!” 

Isith scoffed. “How do you figure?” 

“Oh, silly Listener! Cicero forgets she does not know all the details. This is practically a Purification of the Dark Brotherhood; they are always so much fun! Hehe, well, only for those who aren’t being purified, of course. Cicero believes the last Purification took place two hundred years ago in Cyrodiil. Cicero is from Cyrodiil, did the Listener know that?” 

Isith shifted uncomfortably when she noticed Aela glaring over suspiciously. She leaned closer to the Keeper, her head accidentally nudging one of the bells attached to his jester’s hat. She ignored the jingling sound as she said, “I don’t think that’s what this is, Cicero.” 

Cicero shrugged, a surprisingly normal movement for a madman. “Isith is the Listener, not I. The Nightmother will explain everything to her.” 

A swing of Njada’s mace came much to close for comfort and Isith stepped back, tugging Cicero with her. She patted the Keeper on the back and turned away, leaving him to his own devices, whatever those may be. 

When dinnertime came around, Isith chose to dine at the Bannered Mare. She slipped out of Jorrvaskr and into the twilight evening without anyone noticing. The Mare was filled to the brim with drunken louts and boisterous fools, all of which served to distract Isith from her heavy mind. She found a place near the bar, wedging herself between two very large, very smelly farm workers, and ordered a pint of cider and a meal. The food at the Bannered Mare never failed to inspire anything other than a grumbling stomach and possible regurgitation but Isith enjoyed it regardless. It was better than sitting in a room full of people that hated her, after all. 

When she had finished her meal she went to sit in the center of the room and listened with the others as the bard played song after song. As the hours ticked by, several men asked her for a dance and she humored them, stumbling around the room as they drunkenly tried not to step on her toes. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning that the crowd finally dispersed and Isith returned soberly, a fact of which she was proud, to Jorrvaskr. 

She realized somewhat despondently that she had nowhere to sleep. The barracks were locked up tight and would not budge when she tried to open them. _Well, this is new._ She cursed and slammed her fist against the door. 

“Aela says it’s a precaution.” 

Isith whipped around and saw Farkas standing at the top of stairs looking down at her. His arms were crossed over his chest and his armor was gone, replaced by more casual attire. 

Isith frowned. “Against me?” 

“No,” Farkas replied, shaking his head, “In case we are attacked again.” He waved his hand at her to encourage her up the steps. She obeyed reluctantly, casting one last longing gaze at the barrack doors. 

When she reached the top of the stairs, Farkas herded her toward one of the small tables nearby. “You didn’t eat dinner here.” He glanced at her expectantly as they both took a seat. 

“I wanted to eat at the Bannered Mare.” 

He looked at her skeptically. “No one _wants_ to eat at the Bannered Mare, Isith. Not even me.” Despite popular opinion, it was remarkably hard to pull a fast one on Farkas. 

Isith turned her face away and stared instead into the dying embers of the fire pit. It looked like she would be headed back to the Bannered Mare after all. 

“I’m sorry, Farkas.” She apologized quietly. 

Farkas nodded, his dark hair splaying messily across his shoulders so that Isith had to clasp her hands at her side to keep from brushing it back. “I know you are.” His voice was gentle. 

Isith worried at her lower lip. This was becoming too awkward much too quickly. “Could I…Do you think I might get into the barracks sometime tonight. I mean, if someone hasn’t taken my bed. Torvar was always pretty jealous of it, you know.” She was rambling, something she didn’t often do. “If he has taken it, don’t you think I might could…bunk with you for the night?” She cringed as the last part of her sentence came out. 

“No.” Farkas replied, shaking his head. 

_Ah, rejection…not a pleasant feeling_ . Embarrassed, Isith quickly tried to hide the blush that was creeping over her cheeks. “Well, then...off to Bannered Mare I go.” She stood to go and stepped back from Farkas. “Good night.” 

He did not respond. Instead, his silvery eyes trailed her all the way to the door. Just as her hand pressed against the wood, he called out to her. “Isith,” She turned around, eyes hopeful, “I forgive you.” 

_Well, that’s a start_ . Isith offered him a small smile and slipped out into the night. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been speedily uploading this story and just realized that I may have left a note or two to myself somewhere in these chapters...If you come across anything bizarrely out of place, ignore it. It's just leftovers from my little mind a-turning back when I was writing this. I would have just imported all the clean files from ff.net but, apparently they're a big bag o' dicks that just doesn't want to share with other sites. Bite me, fanfic.net. Bite me.
> 
> Still here? Sorry, ranting. I apologize for any random nonsensical insertions should they pop up. Like I said though, this is just here so that the story continues to be available for those who enjoyed previously. Otherwise, it wouldn't have been uploaded so I'm not gonna go back and spot check the whole thing.
> 
> Thanks for your patience and for reading. If you've made it this far, I hope you continue to enjoy it.

The first thing Isith did the next day was demand that Aela allow her to sleep in the barracks at Jorrvaskr. The argument went back and forth for some time with Isith arguing that it made more sense for her to remain at Jorrvaskr should the Dark Brotherhood return. Aela eventually conceded, albeit reluctantly, and agreed that Isith was free to come and go once again. It was a small victory but it made Isith happy nonetheless. 

She lingered in the training yard for some time and was just turning to go inside when Eorlund called out to her. Isith looked up in time to catch the older man as he rounded the corner, headed straight for her. 

The blacksmith greeted her with a nod. “There you are, girl. I have a favor to ask.” 

“Of course, Eorlund. What is it?” 

He scratched at his silver beard and jerked his head toward Jorrvaskr. “I need you to go down to Kodlak’s quarters and retrieve a fragment of Wuuthrad he keeps there. Bring it to me as soon as you have it.” 

Isith agreed and headed off toward the barracks. Kodlak’s room lay at the end of the hall and she entered quietly. Rather morbidly, she thought, _It feels like I’m walking into a tomb_. Everything seemed just as neat as the Harbinger had left it. Isith had always admired him in that regard. For a warrior, he was remarkably immaculate. 

She drifted through the opening area and paused at the doors that led to his bed chamber. It felt like an invasion of the dead man’s privacy to rifle through his things. Taking a breath, she pushed the doors open gently and stepped over the threshold. Unfortunately, the fragment of Wuuthrad was not on some plague on the wall for all to see which meant she would have to go through his things. 

She rummaged through a chest near the bed with no luck and turned her attention to his bed side table. Sliding open the drawer, she noticed a leather bound journal resting on top of small object, with just a single corner of the metal peeking out from under the book. Isith brushed the journal aside and smiled when she discovered the final piece of Wuuthrad. She tucked the fragment in her pocket and turned to go when her conscious got the better of her. 

_I really shouldn’t,_ she scolded herself as she picked up the journal and unlatched the first page. _Someone has to though. Although I wonder what a man like Kodlak would write about. Lost love? Ha! No. Top-secret recipes? Not likely, poor man wasn’t a_ very _good cook. Werewolf business?_ She decided that her last idea was by far the most likely. 

For a quarter of an hour she sat and read through the Harbinger’s journal. She nearly dropped it when she discovered Kodlak had foreseen her arrival. The fact that he still had enough faith in her to trust her after all she had done was enough to take her breath. Now, more than ever, she wished that he was alive and well. A single tear welled up in the corner of one eye and trailed miserably down her cheek. 

Sniffling, she turned through the final pages of the journal. Her sadness was soon replaced by a new found sense of hope when she realized that the old warrior had put to paper a possible cure for his lycanthropy. 

Aloud, as she eyed the passage carefully, she said, “So that’s why he sent me after those witches.” 

She looked up when she heard the scrape of boots against the floor outside Kodlak’s room. A few moments later, Farkas came into view. From the look on his face, Isith couldn’t tell whether he was surprised or displeased to find her sitting on Kodlak’s bed with the old man’s journal in her lap. 

“Isith? What are you doing in here?” He paused at the door and looked her over, his eyes narrowing. 

“Eorlund sent me down here to find the last piece of Wuuthrad. I came across this, too.” She waved the journal in the air so that he could see it. 

_Aha, now he looks displeased._ Sure enough, Farkas’ features turned into a scowl. It struck her how much like his brother he looked when he was unhappy with her. 

“That’s Kodlak’s.” he stated bluntly. 

Isith bobbed her head up and down. “Yes. It’s his journal.” Before Farkas could speak again, she continued, “It has been a very interesting read, if I do say so myself.” 

Farkas shook his head and glanced back over his shoulder. He stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind him. “Well, what does it say?” 

Isith pressed her lips together and flipped back through the pages. “It talks about a possible cure for his lycanthropy. He needed to the Glenmoril witch heads for a reason.” 

At this, Farkas’ eyes grew wide. “A cure?” He looked as if he didn’t quite believe it. 

“Yes.” 

“Do you think,” he paused for a moment to run a hand through his hair, “Maybe it would still work?” 

“He’s dead, Farkas. How should I know?” Isith closed the journal and hopped off the bed, straightening the covers she had ruffled. “Then again,” she said as she finished, “I’ve made enough deals with gods to know they like to negotiate.” 

Farkas’ eyebrows rose into his hairline. “What?” 

“Never mind,” she said quickly and turned to face him. She met his eyes for a brief moment before looking away. If the other twin were with them, he would know what to do. Isith wanted to kick herself at the thought. There was no denying it, however, and quietly she said, “We need Vilkas here.” 

Farkas glanced at her before looking away again. Something unreadable – worry, maybe- flashed across his face and Isith had to restrain herself from reaching out to him. 

She sighed. “I’m sorry, Farkas. I’m sure your brother will be back sooner or later. He’ll be fine. He’s too grumpy to die.” 

The big Nord did not smile. Instead, he turned his back to Isith and stepped toward the door. “It’s good you found what Kodlak wrote but I guess you should probably take that piece of Wuuthrad to Eorlund. It’s not smart to make the man who works the forge angry.” 

Isith couldn’t stop herself from reaching out as he started to leave. Her fingers closed around his wrist gently, afraid that he would pull away. He did not. He just stood and looked down at her hand. Isith moved closer to him so that she was standing only a few inches in front of him. It was as close as they had been since Kodlak died. 

It took her an uncharacteristically long time to try and gather her words. “Farkas…I know you’re worried about your brother –“ 

“I am.” He still would not look at her. 

“He’s going to be alright, Farkas. I would not have left him otherwise.” 

For the first time, Farkas’ eyes flicked up to meet hers. That same look of _something_ was there. “You wouldn’t have left him?” The man’s voice was dry. 

Isith shook her head earnestly. “Of course not,” she whispered. 

And just like that, Farkas looked away. “I see.” 

It hit Isith then. The look in his eyes was one of jealousy. She had not recognized it because she had never before fathomed that Farkas could ever _be_ jealous. If he had smacked her over the head the realization couldn’t have struck her any harder. 

Farkas side stepped her before she could speak again and put his hand on the door and pushed it opened. He was already moving away when Isith found her voice again. 

“Farkas, wait!” She reached for him but he did not let her touch him. He kept his face turned from her in an attempt to hide the pained expression he wore. Isith stood back for a moment, watching as he moved steadily out of the room, not so much as casting a parting look her way. She would be damned if she let him take another step further. 

She rushed to his side and grabbed him hard enough so that he couldn’t go any further without dragging her along with him. “Whoa, you big oaf!” She tugged on his arm for extra measure. 

Farkas shook her off, only to be grabbed once more. 

“You’ve taken this the wrong way, Farkas!” She moved to plant herself firmly in front of the much larger man and stared at him, her green eyes hard, until he finally stopped. 

Farkas let go an exasperated sigh. His breath ruffled Isith’s hair and she had to brush it back in place. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were as dull as she could remember seeing them. He looked every bit as broken-hearted as he felt. 

“I was afraid of this,” he said quietly. 

“Afraid of what, Farkas?” 

He lifted one hand and let his fingers graze the side of her face, so light that she could hardly feel it. “I almost didn’t let him go with you, you know. It didn’t matter how confused I was over you and Kodlak and everything else. I knew he cared for you and that worried me.” 

Isith only stared back at him. Farkas let his hand fall back to his side despondently. He looked to the ground, finding interest in the way his boots scrapped against the floor. He did not look at her as he asked, “Do you want to know why I wouldn’t let you come to bed with me last night?” 

Isith nodded. She had assumed it was because Aela had barred her from entering the barracks. Either that or Farkas was still cross with her. If there was another reason, she had not thought of it. 

“I couldn’t be sure if you had… _been_ with Vilkas. He went after you when I didn’t…I thought maybe you might have changed your mind. I…I didn’t think I could hold you and wonder whether or not you were thinking about him.” He stomped the ground suddenly and brushed past Isith with an unexpected growl. He stalked over to the nearest and chair and dropped down in it. “I don’t know, Isith!” He ran both hands through his hair and scowled. 

Isith followed him, her expression soft, and knelt down on the ground in front of him. The memories of her kiss with Vilkas flashed through her mind and she forced them back. _We agreed to not to speak of it. It doesn’t matter now. This man, however, does matter._

“Vilkas and I have unsteady alliance at best, Farkas.” She smirked and patted his knee. “I have no feelings for your brother, I swear. He’s a good man but he’s not you.” She reached up to touch Farkas’ face, brushing her fingers against the rough stubble. He relaxed into her touch, inclining his head so that she could better reach him. 

“I understood why you didn’t come after me after Kodlak’s death. Vilkas can…harden himself against such things. But you, you were mourning. I never questioned that.” 

Farkas’ gaze was tender, his eyes brighter than they had been before. “Am I forgiven then?” 

Isith felt herself grin and she shook her head. “There’s nothing to forgive you for, Farkas. Unless, of course, you and one of those tavern tramps were up to something while I was away.” 

The big Nord smiled back and shook his head. He stood up suddenly and Isith was almost knocked back by the movement. He caught her and hauled her up. He pulled her to him before she was even able to balance herself, supporting her in his arms, and claimed her lips with his. 

He whispered against her mouth, “I’ve missed you, Isith.” 

She murmured something back in response and felt him chuckle against her. All too soon, the kiss ended and Farkas gently pushed himself away from her. 

He folded his arms across his chest and did his best to look at her seriously. “Now, go and take that Wuuthrad fragment up to Eorlund.” 

Isith sighed. _Just like old times._


	20. Chapter 20

Vilkas was sick for hours. He barely had time to open his eyes and register the people in front of him before sagging over one side of the bed and releasing the almost nonexistent contents of his stomach on the floor. One man that he did not recognize kicked a bucket his way and Vilkas did his best to aim for it instead of the stone ground. 

If he had been feeling any better at all, he would have been up and out of the bed in the blink of an eye to demand who all these strange people were. As it was, he was content to just lay and wallow around for as long as he could. His shoulder was aching, though he did not have the strength to explore the wound further. His head was heavy and his throat was dry. Once, as a young man, he’d had too much to drink and had been hung over for days afterwards. That had been nothing compared to how he felt now. 

For a long time, he could not even muster the energy to lift his head high enough to look around. Wherever he was it was cool and dank and he felt appreciative for it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware that he must be running a high fever. 

_What in the name of Ysgramor happened?_ He thought long and hard, doing his best to remember while ignoring the headache it caused him. _Isith. Yes, she was there._ He recalled holding her in his arms, touching her hair, the way she smelled. He groaned into the air. _I bet she did this! Of course she did. Oh, by Talos, I think I might be sick again._ Sure enough, his thoughts were interrupted by another bout of dry-heaving. 

Rolling sorely onto his back once more, he continued seething. Flashes of Isith in the moonlight, thigh high in cold water, flickered through his mind. What had happened after that? _She and I…we bathed together, yes. It was most enjoyable. And then_ …he remembered trying to convince her to lay down with him just for that night. She had refused and he had drifted off into a fitful sleep. _Assassins!_ Everything came back perfectly, so clearly that he could see the moment Isith turned away from him to go after the Redguard. That’s when the pain had started and the poison took effect. Vilkas shut his eyes against the thought of how his blood had boiled beneath his skin and his innards contracted and twisted to the point of pain. 

_Poison. Damned assassins. Damned woman._ He struggled to set up and was greeted in return by a pair of golden hands forcing him back down. 

“You, my good sir, are more trouble than your woman friend.” 

_Evrim?_ Vilkas squinted into the dim light. Sure enough, the familiar face of the High Elf mage stared back at him. His golden hair was greasy from spending too long in the Cistern and it hung loosely about his face in limp locks. 

“Evrim?” Vilkas choked. He forced himself up again and this time the healer only rolled his eyes. An Imperial man that Vilkas did not recognize was standing behind Evrim, watching Vilkas intently. 

“Where am I?” 

“You, dear friend, are in the most unpleasant of places.” Evrim chirped. The Imperial looked momentarily offended before shrugging in admittance. 

He spoke up for the first time and gave Vilkas the answer he had been looking for. “You’re in Riften, Companion. With the Thieves Guild.” His voice was soft and if Vilkas had been a less manly soul he might have been happy to sit and listen to him for hours on end. 

Instead, he let his head fall back against his pillow and moaned unhappily _. Isith. I will kill her._

Evrim seemed to sense what he was thinking and the mage nodded his head. “Trust me, Nord. I have a bone to pick with your lady friend next time I see her. This is how she repays me for saving her life? Hmph! Having me dragged to this pit!” 

Vilkas tuned him out; the mage’s voice was not what he wanted to listen to at the moment. He hardly noticed when the Imperial moved to his side and tugged at the collar of his shirt. It would have been a death sentence under any other circumstances but Vilkas let him get away with it. The man hummed to himself as he poked gently at the skin there, occasionally apologizing whenever Vilkas winced in response. 

“You’re healing nicely. Better than I expected. The guildmaster will be pleased.” 

Vilkas opened one eye and looked up at the thief. “Guildmaster? Isith, you mean?” The Imperial nodded. 

“Where is she?” 

“She left a few days ago. She said she had business with the Companions in Whiterun.” 

Vilkas nodded to the best of his ability. It stung at first, knowing that she had not remained by his side. However, he could not fault her for leaving. In fact, the more he considered it, he was rather pleased with her. She had to return Wuuthrad to the Companions and tell them of the Dark Brotherhood’s latest attempt. _It is admirable, I suppose_. With a frown, he suddenly remembered his brother. It was wrong of him to feel so possessive over Isith. His brother would get the happiness he deserved and he would watch from afar, always weary of what he could have had. Well, at least he would be if he ever got out of this bed. 

Groaning, Vilkas moved to sit up and was smacked back down by Evrim. He glowered at the mage. “I need to return to Jorrvaskr.” 

“And you shall…when you’re better.” 

“Well, how long is that going to take?” Vilkas’ pale eyes clashed with Evrim’s fiery orange ones. The mage cocked an elegantly arched eyebrow at him and replied, “A few more days at the most.” 

Suddenly, Vilkas felt a hand against his good shoulder and he shifted his glare over to find the Imperial looking down at him. 

“Are you hungry? Do you think you could eat?” Rune asked. 

Vilkas’ look smoothed at the mention of food. His stomach, on the other hand, was not so excited. “Yes, a meal would be appreciated,” he paused and listened to the rumbling in his belly, “That way I’ll have something to throw up next time.” 

Rune grinned and walked away to go fetch Vilkas’ food. The Nord did his best to ignore Evrim as the mage hunkered down for another round of healing. He closed his eyes and thought of Isith. 

…………………………………………………………………………… 

The next day, Vilkas felt quite a bit better and, against Evrim’s advice, managed to sit up. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and, for the first time, got a good look at the place around him. 

“It’s a sewer.” He said aloud, his mouth quirking downwards distastefully. “Blasted thieves.” 

“Whoa, careful now, lad. Don’t insult your hosts.” Vilkas had not seen the large, auburn-haired man approach. A Nord like himself, only about four inches taller, the man came over and propped himself against a nearby wall. Vilkas studied him, his eyes narrowing on him in recognition. Even if he had not recognized the man’s face, he would have placed the scent. It was the same scent that had nearly driven him mad a few weeks earlier. This was Isith’s lover. Pre-Farkas. 

“Recognize me yet?” Brynjolf smirked at the warrior. 

Vilkas scowled. “Yes. You are the thief that followed Isith around so faithfully in Whiterun. Until she grew tired of you.” 

Brynjolf threw his head back and laughed. “Oh ho! That’s a cheap shot for a sick man. And here I thought you Companions had some honor.” He smiled when he saw Vilkas visibly ruffle at the remark. “And for the record,” Brynjolf added, “She did not get tired of me. I was needed here.” 

Vilkas frowned and turned his attention to his shoulder. He rolled it, wincing. “A sore topic for your pride, I see.” This time it was him who smiled when the thief glared at him. 

Brynjolf pushed himself away from the wall and stepped closer to Vilkas. It would have been a challenge if the Nord warrior had been able to accept it. “Tell me, lad. Are you planning to stop encroaching on our hospitality any time soon?” 

Vilkas replied, “As soon as possible, believe me.” 

“I need a time frame, boy.” 

_Boy? Boy! That is a step too far._ Vilkas moved to stand up. Fortunately, he did so just as Evrim was returning from whatever he had been doing. The elf shot Brynjolf a dirty look and brushed past him. He forced Vilkas back down onto the bed and turned to waggle his finger at the thief. 

“Don’t disturb the patient, Brynjolf.” He said. 

Brynjolf shrugged innocently. “I was doing no such thing. Honestly, though,” he side-stepped the mage and went to the edge of Vilkas bed. “Harsh words aside, my friend, I need to know when you are planning on returning to Whiterun.” 

“Ask the good healer here. When are you planning on letting me out of this bed?” He paused and then added, “Wait. Better yet, Evrim, how long do you think you can _keep me in this bed_? I need to get back to Jorrvaskr.” 

“Give me two days. Until you are fit to walk.” 

Brynjolf nodded at the mage’s words. “Good then. I’ll tell my people to be ready.” 

Vilkas scowled at the thief. “What?” 

“We’re going with you. You’ll have some company at Jorrvaskr this time around.” 

Vilkas cried out, “I think not! We have no room for thieves at Jorrvaskr.” 

“You have room for Isith.” Brynjolf countered. 

Vilkas glared at him. “That’s different.” 

While they bickered, Evrim took the chance to examine Vilkas’ shoulder. The Nord did not move away, too busy arguing, as Evrim let his hands hover above the recovering area. 

Restoration magic heated the air, buzzing quietly behind the men’s loud words. 

………………………………………………………………….. 


	21. Chapter 21

As the days crept by in Whiterun, Isith was keeping busy the best way she knew how. She plotted and planned and occasionally sparred a few rounds with whoever would take her. Whenever she crossed blades with someone, she fought dirty on purpose, which earned her more than a few ugly words from her fellow Companions. What they did not realize was that she was training them. She was fighting like an assassin. 

In recent days, she had traded in her Nightingale armor for something much lighter. She wore instead her Brotherhood armor. The red patches of leather had been removed and replaced with solid black, reinforced to provide more protection than before; it did not feel right to leave it as it was. Her dual scimitars were put aside and in their place she wielded two daedric daggers. She had earned them long ago. One of the blades weighed particularly heavy in her hand. It was the same blade she had used to cut the throat of Emperor Mede. 

Farkas went for days without mentioning her change in attire and attitude but after watching one particularly brutal thrashing, he stepped up to say something. 

“Why are you fighting like this?” 

Isith glanced up at him as she reached to pull Ria to her feet. The Imperial woman mumbled under her breath and looked as if she would also like to know the answer to that question. 

Isith sighed and sheathed her blades. “I’m preparing I guess. If Jorrvaskr is attacked again, and I don’t know that it will be, I want you all to be prepared.” 

Truth be told, she had become more and more weary as the days went on. Two nights earlier the Nightmother had confronted her once again in her dreams. She had been a mirror image of Isith and had echoed the same words as before. 

_Something is coming_ . 

Isith shuddered. Whatever peace she had felt from killing Nazir had been short lived. She sighed and rested her weight against the big Nord’s side, letting her head lay against his chest. 

“I just wish it would all go back to normal, Farkas. The Companions have enough to worry about, like helping Kodlak, for instance.” She gave Farkas a stern look. 

Farkas grinned innocently, “Well, it could have already been done if Vilkas were here. Aela thinks it’s best to wait for him to return. So do I, I guess.” 

Isith pushed her lower lip out in a pout. “I suppose. Hey, wanna go a round or two?” She patted Farkas shoulder in good spirit and rested one hand on her daggers. 

That innocent grin suddenly turned into something much more heated. Farkas lowered his head so that his mouth was next to Isith’s ear. His voice husky, he asked, “My room or yours?” 

The color drained from Isith’s face and she blanched. _Score one for Farkas. I…was not expecting that._ In an attempt to recover, she swatted his side. 

“Don’t tease.” 

Farkas’ expression did not change and he brought a hand up to let his fingers work through Isith’s hair. “I’m not teasing.” 

_I can’t believe I’m about to say this…_ Isith stepped away, just enough so that Farkas wasn’t staring down at her with quite so much intensity. “I…I think we should wait, Farkas. At least until things calm down.” 

The Nord’s face fell and he huffed, moving his hands to cross them over his chest. He took a couple of deep breaths to ease his disappointment and then offered a small smile. “Whenever you’re ready.” 

Isith looked at him gratefully and turned to go inside. Any other time she would have been all too happy dump Farkas on his back and have her wicked, wily way with him until she just couldn’t go any more. There was just too much on her mind at the moment for her to enjoy it, however. 

_Stress is a bastard_ , she thought miserably. 

Once inside, she bumped into Ria who was dabbing a damp rag at her busted lip. Isith grimaced. _Did I do that?_ Ria glanced at her, momentarily angry, until her features eased a bit. 

Isith motioned to her lip. “Sorry about that.” 

“It’s fine. Aela’s given me worse. I think I might go to the temple and have it healed though.” 

Isith leaned in closer to the other woman and eyed the cut in the corner of her mouth. “I don’t think that’s really necessary.” 

Ria blushed and glanced around before lowering the bloody rag to her side. “I know,” she admitted, “But I’m meeting a man tonight. I don’t want to be so bruised up he’s afraid to touch me.” 

Isith couldn’t help but grin and she nodded her head in understanding. _Good for her. Glad somebody is getting some_. She wished the woman the best of luck and headed off to the barracks to wash up before dinner time rolled around. She had just finished wiping away the grime on her face when Athis came bursting in. 

He was more exuberant than she had ever seen him as he announced Vilkas’ triumphant return. Isith whipped around to face the elf. 

“He’s back?” _Already?_ Then again, it had been over a week since she returned to Jorrvaskr. 

Athis nodded hurriedly before turning to go. Isith was quick to follow him and took the steps two at a time into the main hall. Just as the Dark Elf had promised, Vilkas was making his way through the front door. Farkas was the first to greet him and enveloped his brother in a swallowing hug. Vilkas returned the motion with more sentiment than was typical for him. As he stepped away from the bigger twin, his eyes danced across the room from face to face until he found Isith’s. She inclined her head to him, smiling. 

He looked better than she expected, especially given his comatose state the last time she saw him. His color had returned and the relief she felt at seeing him up and awake was no easy feeling. _Good to know I didn’t get him killed after all_. It was like taking a breath of fresh air as some of the worry she felt lifted off her shoulders. 

Vilkas’ eyes fell on her, glancing back quickly at Farkas, before nodding her way. Isith did the same, her lips quirking in a tiny smile. 

Before anyone else had time to greet the returning Companion, half a dozen other figures nudged the Nord out of the way and forced themselves into the room. 

As she saw them, Isith had to physically restrain her jaw from hitting the ground. 

Brynjolf and four other thieves were taking in the sight of the mead hall before them. Isith couldn’t help but notice how strange they all looked in the warm light of Jorrvaskr. It was vastly different form seeing them in the dank darkness of the Cistern. Rune, Thrynn, Cynric, and Niruin stared back at the unfamiliar faces of the Companions. The thieves looked uneasy. 

_Understandable_ . Kodlak’s words echoed in her mind. What was it he had said? _Thieves and warriors tend to fight like cats and dogs_. 

A sixth figure towered above the others, his regal head inclined distastefully as he sniffed the air. Isith recognized him immediately. It was Evrim. 

She stepped forward, lest things get awkward, and called out to them. The thieves waved at her and various cries of “Hello, guildmaster” filled the air. Brynjolf stood back, looking quite pleased with the expression of surprise that was still plastered all over Isith’s face. 

Before anyone could say anything to her, however, Evrim stepped forward, pushing his way through the throng of people and waggling a long golden finger at her. 

“You, young woman, have a lot to explain.” Isith could not tell if he was genuinely upset with her or just putting on a show. 

Either way, she shrugged and offered him her most charming smile. “On the contrary, I don’t have nearly as much to explain as Brynjolf.” She shot an accusatory stare at the auburn-haired thief and added, “Like, for instance, what you’re all doing here.” 

Aela, who had just finished greeting Vilkas, seconded that motion. “Yes,” she snapped, “It’s not exactly wise for a group of thieves to show up in our halls unannounced.” 

Vilkas scowled at her, so fiercely that it proved he had indeed made a full recovery to his former self. “They would not be dissuaded, Aela. They are here to buffer our numbers in case the worse comes to pass.” 

At this, Isith caught Brynjolf’s eyes and raised one eyebrow curiously. Brynjolf winked at her and she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to smile or frown. 

Clearing his throat to put a stop to any bickering that threatened to break out between Aela and Vilkas, he turned to Isith and asked, “Where should we put our things, lass?” 

Neither Aela nor Farkas looked particularly pleased with the idea and the rest of the Companions visibly bristled at the thought of sharing their rooms with unfamiliar thieves. 

Isith decided to take the path of least resistance and replied, “I’m sure Vilkas will see that you get settled in.” 

About an hour later, everyone managed to hunker down somewhere. The addition of six people made the barracks slightly more cramped than they normally were but it would not be unbearable. Everyone was all in tizzy over Vilkas’ return and Isith took the chance to pull Brynjolf aside as soon as she could. She cornered him in Kodlak’s office. 

The thief did not seem surprised when she dragged him behind the closed doors, tossing him roughly to the side as soon as she was able and locking the door behind her with a glance. 

Brynjolf grinned his typical devilish smile and waited until she rounded on him before he said, “If you wanted a quicky, lass, all you had to do was ask.” 

Isith made a face at him and crossed her arms to show that she was not about to be sweet-talked at the moment. “What are you doing here, Bryn? With Rune and Thrynn and the others, I might add!” 

Brynjolf rolled his shoulders nonchalantly and moved over to the nearest table. A bottle of mead sat atop it, dusty from being ignored, and the thief picked it up to uncork it. He offered it to her and she reluctantly accepted. Isith took a deep swallow and passed it back to him, never taking her eyes off his. Drink or no drink, she would still get her answer. 

Brynjolf helped himself to a few swigs before he sat the bottle back down. He explained, bluntly but with sincerity, why he had arrived unannounced. “I was worried about you, Isith. You can’t kill one of the last members of the Dark Brotherhood and expect them not to retaliate. The people here are skilled fighters, no doubt, but they’re not in the shape to be fighting assassins.” 

Isith had to bite back a scoff. _Ha! Don’t I know it…_ Brynjolf read her thoughts in her eyes and passed her the mead once more. She accepted it much more gracefully this time. 

As she swallowed, she said, “Fair enough, then. You want the truth from my side, Brynjolf?” 

The thief said that he did. 

Isith sighed and drank down half of what was left before returning the bottle to the table. 

“I’m a little torn, I have to admit. I keep telling myself that there’s no way the Brotherhood could muster the numbers or the leadership to attack me again. Part of me wants to believe that they might actually let me get away with this.” She paused, suddenly wishing she had something much stronger to drink. Brynjolf continued to watch her intently, his emerald eyes focused on hers. 

“You know,” Isith went on, “I’ve been dreaming of the Nightmother. She talks to me sometimes…in my sleep. Tells me things.” 

Brynjolf’s eyes went wide at the information and quickly narrowed. “Why haven’t you said anything until now, lass?” 

“I’m the damn Listener, Brynjolf! It’s to be expected. Gods, hearing her in my sleep is better than talking to a corpse like I used to but…” Her voice trailed off and she looked away, her eyes becoming unfocused. “She tells me things.” 

“What kind of things?” 

“Warnings…threats. Sometimes a little of both. She says that something is coming.” 

Brynjolf grumbled before snatching up the mead and chugging down the last of it. “That’s a bit ominous, isn’t it?” He murmured. 

Isith gave a short laugh, one more of worry than amusement, and replied, “You’re telling me.” 

Brynjolf grew serious and took a few steps closer to the woman in front of him. The room had grown cold and Isith was grateful for the heat he put off. 

“Have you told anyone else this?” he asked. 

Her answer was blunt. “No.” 

Brynjolf had to resist the urge to pull her into a comforting hug. Instead, he settled for brushing her bangs aside with a gentle touch. She was worried, far more than she was letting on. 

“You want to know what I think, lass?” 

Isith grinned and shook her head. “Is it dirty?” 

Brynjolf couldn’t help but smile back and he shrugged. “It could be. However, I think,” He nudged her chin up playfully and continued, “That you should just run away. Get out of Skyrim. I’ll be coming with you, of course, so you’ll have to leave that hulking beau of yours behind. But we’ll find a nice place and settle down, maybe raise some chickens-“ 

“You hate chickens, Bryn.” 

“Hush, lass! You’re interrupting my master plan. Anyway, we’ll go so far away that the Nightmother and the Brotherhood won’t ever be able to find you. Then, naturally after a while, you’ll have lots of little red-headed babies prone to kleptomania. We’ll live happily ever-after!” 

His speech ended with such enthusiasm that Isith couldn’t help but break into peals of laughter. She chuckled for a long time, each bout of giggles beginning anew whenever she would look up to see Brynjolf staring expectantly down at her. Eventually, his own lips turned up in a smile and he joined in the humor. 

When Isith finally managed to catch her breath, she stepped back, gasping. “It’s a fine plan, Bryn, but I don’t have any intentions of having red-headed babies. They’d most certainly be blonde.” 

Brynjolf tsk-ed at her and shrugged. “Technicalities, lass.” 

Isith shook her head, still smiling. All she wanted to do at the moment was pull her friend into a hug. She did not. Instead, she reached out to touch his shoulder and told him quietly, “You always were good at lightening the mood, Brynjolf. Thank you, it was much appreciated.” 

The thief looked genuinely disappointed for the briefest of moments but brushed it off. “No worries. I had a backup plan in case you didn’t go for that one. You see, lass,” he clasped his hand over hers, “The boys and I are going to be here ‘til the end. No matter what that dead old bitty has planned for you, we’ll see you through. _I’ll_ see you through.” 

Isith found that she didn’t have much to say at that. She just smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling with all the gratitude the man could ever need. She squeezed his arm one final time before stepping away to move toward the door. Brynjolf didn’t follow her; he just watched her go. 

…………………………………………………………………… 

Dinner that night at Jorrvaskr came after a long discussion between Aela and the twins about the cure Isith had discovered in Kodlak’s journal. Vilkas was adamant about attempting to help their former Harbinger regardless of his fate. Farkas sided with his brother, simply happy to have the man back alive, and the two of them soon dragged Isith into the mix. She agreed that it was best to try and help the man who had been so good to all of them. Eventually, Aela came along to their way of thinking and it was decided that they would set out for Ysgramor’s tomb as soon as Eorlund finished repairing Wuuthrad. 

At the table, the Companions made room for the thieves with Isith wedged between the two parties like a boundary marker. The only warrior who was not at dinner that night was Ria, who was missing due to a prior engagement with a man. Isith couldn’t help but be a little envious. There was little time for real courtship in her life and she took her time with Farkas when she could find it. 

At the start of the meal, Vilkas had attempted to swipe the chair next to her but Farkas had not-so-subtlely demanded that he scoot over. Their brotherly antics had returned once more, complete with eye-rolling and bickering, and all seemed well with the world. 

Isith was all too content to watch. It was all a little bizarre, having members from the Thieves Guild and the Companions under one roof for her sake. She said very little, occasionally glancing over to Cicero who was sitting alone at one of the smaller tables, messily eating his food since his hands remained bound. 

When Isith had finished her meal, she went over to the assassin and joined him. Most everyone else tended to either ignore him or avoid him altogether. Since arriving at Jorrvaskr, he had managed to come up with various, individualized insults for every single member of the Companions. 

As she took a seat in front of the Keeper, ignoring the glances from the others in the room, she asked, “What are you thinking about, Cicero?” 

The assassin shrugged and sucked on one of his fingers to rid it of the meaty juices that ran down it. “If the Listener really must know, Cicero is thinking about the Nightmother.” 

Isith chose to remain silent, thinking instead, _Why does that not surprise me._

Cicero took her silence in stride as only a madman could and went on speaking. “Doesn’t the Listener think that the Nightmother will be most unhappy with her after all this time? She is ignoring her duties after all. _Tsk_ _tsk_ …shame, Listener, shame!” 

“The Nightmother still communicates with me, Cicero, don’t you worry.” 

The Imperial’s eyes lit up like torch bugs in the dark. “She does! Ohhh, Listener, you must tell poor Cicero exactly what she says! Has she mentioned him? Does she miss Cicero?” 

Now, Isith was not above being manipulative. She did not revel in such practices but neither did she pass up a chance when she saw one. Since such a chance had just presented itself, she saw no reason to let it go unused. 

That being the case, she answered with smile, “She misses you very much, Cicero. She is very proud that you have remained loyal to me thus far. She wants you to continue to do so.” 

“Oh, if Cicero’s hands were not bound he would clap! Ah ha! He shall dance instead!” The Keeper moved to get up but Isith was quick to stop him. 

“No, no, Cicero. Just…just sit and eat.” 

The assassin shrugged and did as he was told. Isith sat with him for a few more moments before deciding to return to her original seat. Farkas was looking quite distraught without her and kept throwing her sad glances complete with pouty lips and puppy eyes. 

_Hmm…gigantic, heavily muscled warriors with puppy eyes. It must be a werewolf thing._ She grinned and shook her head. _It’s positively adorable._

She had just started to stand up when the doors opened and Ria stepped inside. Her arms were full and gathered at her waist she held a little child. _And here I thought her date was man-_ Isith’s mind and body froze before she was able to finish the thought. 

Even Cicero stopped eating, his jaw hanging open limply. Both assassins blinked to make sure they were not seeing things. 

_No. She is here. I am not seeing things._

Isith was on her feet so fast that she nearly knocked the table over. The movement drew the other Companions attention and they stared at her, curious as to why she gaping at Ria. 

Isith called out sharply to the Imperial woman. “Ria!” 

Ria smiled back at her and dropped the child down gently to the ground, keeping a hold on the little girl’s hand. 

Babette looked worse for the wear, even for a vampire. She was paler than usual and her face and clothes were smudged and dirty. Isith knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was all part of an act. 

The vampire’s eyes flicked to meet Isith’s and then Cicero’s before returning to her gaze bashfully to the floor. She shuffled closer to Ria, huddling into the woman’s knees and hips. 

_Gods, this cannot end well._ Isith moved a few steps closer but halted when she caught Babette’s eyes on her once more. The look there warned her not to come any closer. It was fierce and hungry and meant only for Isith. 

From the table, Cicero piped up. “Listener, why is the little-“ 

Isith snapped at him so sharply that everyone in the room looked at her. “ _Silence_ , Cicero!” 

Ria, too, was a little alarmed and she floundered by the doorway. She glanced from Isith to Aela and spoke up, “I found this child sitting near the steps on my way in. I thought maybe we could offer her something to eat.” 

Aela looked Babette over. Her nostrils flared as she sensed the smell of death emanating from the child. Vilkas and Farkas seemed to notice as well and all three of them instantly tensed. 

Isith could stand by no longer. “Turn the bitch’s hand loose, Ria. Move over to the table.” 

Ria’s jaw dropped, as did many others, and she maternally tugged the little girl into her arms once more. Ever the convincing actress, Babette whimpered and cuddled into Ria’s arms. 

“Put. Her. Down.” Isith warned. She inched closer to the woman and child. 

Ria looked at her defiantly. “She’s a child!” 

This earned a humored giggle from Cicero. “These people are fools, Listener! Ha ha! They do not see!” 

Isith did not spare the madman a glance and kept her eyes focused on the vampire, all too aware of the imminent danger in which Ria had placed herself. 

This time, she spoke directly to Babette. “Why have you come here?” Her green eyes were as icy as the vampire child’s. 

Babette did not respond and she wiggled in Ria’s arms so that the woman hitched her closer. From the main dining table, everyone eyed Isith curiously, as if unsure of what to do. Vilkas in particular kept squeezing the hilt of his blade, his eyes dancing from Isith to Ria and back again. He wanted to act, that much was obvious, but he did not know how. 

The thieves, however, were another story. They all eased out of their seats, either reaching for their daggers or the bows that seemed perpetually attached at their backs. Niruin had already notched an arrow and had it aimed directly at the figure his guildmaster had deemed an enemy. 

Isith continued to inch forward and called out, “Drop the act, Babette.” 

Finally, the vampire seemed to tire of the game. She sighed loud enough for everyone to her and used her short arms to push herself away from Ria. “You never were any fun, Listener. But I’ll stop…if you insist.” 

What happened next, Isith had no chance to stop. She saw it coming as soon as Babette opened her mouth. Ria jerked away when the child spoke, too shocked to drop her, and stared at the creature in her arms. Babette’s eyes flashed red, the color intensified by the glow of the fire, and she hitched her little jaw open wide. Before poor Ria ever had a chance to react, Babette was on her, her fangs sinking into the tan skin of the Imperial’s neck. As she drink, Babette’s delicate little arms reached up to grasp Ria’s head and twisted with a sickening snap. Both woman and child collapsed to the floor, one just a little deader than the other. 

Isith cried out and charged forward as the rest of the Companions drew what weapons they had. Babette was quicker, however, and recovered from the sudden drop before Isith could reach her. The vampire leapt for her, much stronger than she looked, and crashed into Isith with enough force to nearly drive her to the ground. 

Isith was quick enough to keep Babette from latching onto her and swung her lighter frame around. With all the force she could muster, she hurled the vampire against the nearest wall. It was only after Babette was sent flying that Isith realized the child-monster had taken a portion of bicep with her. The vampire’s sharp nails had dug through Isith’s armor to latch deep in the muscle there, tearing out a chunk of flesh as she was shoved away. 

Isith snarled, driven by pain and anger, and she charged once more at the vampire. Babette was too fast, however, and she danced out of the way just as Isith reached her, avoiding both the Listener and the arrows aimed for her. 

The blood loss from her arm began to take its toll and Isith wavered back and forth, suddenly lightheaded. She had no wish to die at the hands of a vampiric ten year old so she restrained herself from attacking again. 

Babette giggled, sounding every bit like the child she appeared to be, and twirled about in her skirts. She lifted her blood coated hand up and licked at her fingers. 

“You taste delicious, dear Listener!” 

Isith glared at her, aware that everyone else in the room was standing as still as she was. Both Vilkas and Farkas had been in the process of coming to her aid when they saw her halt her attack. They watched her worriedly now. Even Brynjolf made no movement to incite the evil child further. 

Through clenched teeth, Isith asked, “What do you want, Babette?” 

“Oh, I just wanted to tell you that I really miss Nazir. See, the nice lady there wouldn’t have had to die if you hadn’t been so cruel to my friend. But, an eye for an eye, as they say.” 

“There’s more to it, Babette. Enlighten me. _Now_. Before I kill you.” 

At that, Babette tossed her head back and cackled, an alarmingly evil sound to come from something so innocent looking. “You’re in no position to threaten me, Listener. There was something else I was supposed to tell you though…what was it? Hmm,” She lifted a petite finger to her lips as she thought. “Oh, yes! We had the most interesting of visitors in Dawnstar the other day. Believe it or not, Sithis has sent us a gift!” 

Isith’s blood turned cold all of a sudden. She could not find the words to reply. 

Babette did not seem to care and she moved to the door. “Tell your dogs not to come after me, Isith. I’d hate to tear them to pieces. It means less fun for later.” 

With that, she disappeared, gone in the blink of an eye. Isith was left standing stock-still near Ria’s dead body. The corpse, not yet cold, could only be chalked up to one more casualty Isith had brought on the Companions. 

In shock, she stumbled back and rested against the nearest wall. The twins rushed to her side, neither saying a word but both hoisting her up. Evrim was by her side next, his hands already humming with the warmth of healing magic. Brynjolf was the only one to speak, ordering his thieves to spread out and search the grounds. They would be on guard duty all night long. 

Aela said nothing; instead, she slipped silently over to the body of the young woman who had so admired her and lifted her up, motioning for the remaining Companions to help her. Cicero just sat as if in a trance, staring up at the beams of the ceiling, completely unmoving. 

Isith, cradled in Farkas’ arms, was left to fight back the tears of utter hate and shame she felt for the Dark Brotherhood…and for herself. 


	22. Chapter 22

Ria’s funeral was held two days later beneath the warm glow of the morning sun. The air was suitably cold for the somber mood that pervaded the Companions. Isith stood near the edge of the steps and kept her distance from the rest of her fellows at the Skyforge. Ria’s death seemed to be the last straw for many of them, particularly Aela, who had stopped speaking to Isith altogether. 

At the end of the service, when the parting words had been spoken, Vilkas slipped over to her before the others ever looked away from the funeral pyre. Isith watched him somberly, her green eyes dull. Vilkas motioned for her to proceed down the stairs and she obeyed, falling in step behind him as he went ahead of her. They did not speak as they made their way inside Jorrvaskr and down into the barracks. It did not occur to Isith that they were headed for Vilkas’ room. 

When they reached the doors, Vilkas pressed her forward gently and she took a few tentative steps into the room. He closed the door only enough to leave it cracked before turning to the woman in front of him. Her arms were crossed over her chest, one hand massaging the bicep that Evrim had recently healed. 

Not looking at him, Isith mumbled quietly, “You should stop making a habit of leaving funerals early. It’s not polite.” 

Vilkas ignored her. Every part of him wanted to go to her and pull her into his arms to comfort her, whether she wanted it or not. He held himself back, however, reminding himself that there could be no more of that. He would have to comfort her with his words instead. 

“This is not your fault, Isith.” 

Her eyes flashed to meet his suddenly, narrowing on contact. “Don’t lie to me, Vilkas. You’ve never done so before, don’t start now. This is my fault and you know it.” 

Did he know it? He sighed and tugged his fingers through his hair. _It may be her fault…inadvertently_. 

“The only way you could have stopped this, _any of this_ , from happening would have been for you to have never come here. And there is no going back to that, so you might as well look past it.” 

Isith grumbled and turned her back to him. She glanced around for a place to sit and decided on the nearest chair, dropping into it with a sigh. 

“It’s all going to end soon, you realize that don’t you?” This time she was looking towards him but _through_ him, as if he wasn’t even there. She was staring at something no one else would ever be able to see. 

_The end_ , Vilkas realized, _she just wants it to end_. 

He continued to watch her curiously and said, “You act as if that is a bad thing.” 

“It’s not, I suppose. But how many more of you have to die for my mistakes? Who will be next? Athis? Farkas? You? Or how many of Brynjolf’s men, _my_ men, will I lose?” She shot up out of the chair and began pacing. 

Vilkas’ eyes trailed her as she walked back and forth over the floor. He wondered if he was to reach out to her would she let him touch her. _Best to keep my hands to myself_ … _By Ysgramor, she just looks so miserable. Where has my Isith gone? Where is the fire?_ He searched desperately for the steely ire that had burned within her on the day she arrived, the same ire that had made him so weary of her. It was gone now. It had died little by little and no one had noticed. Not even him. 

He called her name and she stopped. Striding over to her, he reached for her. His fingertips had almost grazed her arms when he heard his name being called from the hallway. Vilkas cursed, snatching his hands away. Isith did not notice. She was staring off into space again, too far gone in thought to pay any attention to him. 

The voice was one Vilkas immediately recognized to be his brother’s. He called out to Farkas and heard the larger Nord’s heavy footsteps as they arrived at his door. 

Vilkas braced himself, putting on a scowl so convincing it would fool even his twin. He hurried over to his door and threw it open to find his brother eyeing him suspiciously. Farkas’ eyes trailed from Vilkas to rest on Isith, a look of uncertainty in them. Vilkas knew what his brother was thinking and he could not allow it. 

He tossed his head in Isith’s direction. “Do something with her,” Vilkas snapped, “I cannot.” 

He brushed past his twin and left him there with Isith. It pained him to do so but it was the only choice he had. He knew that he would never be able to comfort her the way he wanted but that did not mean he would not be there for her until the end. 

Sighing, he decided he was in need of a strong drink. 

………………………………………………………….. 

The next day, the Circle members left for Ysgramor’s tomb. Eorlund had finished repairing Wuuthrad and, after a surprisingly motivational speech from the old blacksmith, the Companions had departed Jorrvaskr. They rode quickly, stopping more than they would like whenever the riding became too much for Farkas and he had to get off and stretch. 

Each time this happened, Vilkas would look to Isith, expecting to see her chuckling or, at the very least, smiling at sight of Farkas being so out of his element. Instead, he discovered that she simply sat stonily atop her demonic steed and stared off into the distance. At first this aloofness to the things around her pained Vilkas to witness but the more they rode, the angrier he became at her. If they had been alone, he would have stopped the horses and given her a stern talking-to. 

_She has been so strong for so long, she cannot let this break her now._ He resisted the urge to run his horse up alongside her and speak to her, to ask her again what was wrong, to tell her to be stronger. 

He glanced over at his brother, wondering if he had noticed Isith’s change in demeanor. As he expected, Farkas, when he wasn’t shifting around uncomfortably in his saddle, was watching Isith like a hawk. His eyes were worried, the corners creased as his brow knitted together when he studied her. 

They rode like this for the entire day before stopping to make camp. They had covered a huge expanse of ground and all of the horses were exhausted. Aela climbed off hers, mumbling loudly that they were useless animals for werewolves to have when they could just shift and make it to the tomb twice as quickly. Shadowmere seemed to take offence to the woman’s opinions and more than once he tried to bite her whenever she passed too close. 

“Control your mule, Isith!” Aela snarled as she popped the black horse across the nose. 

Vilkas watched as Isith glared at the other woman. “Stop agitating him then.” She snapped. 

There was no hint of playfulness in her words, not even the smallest trace of teasing. Even Aela noticed and chose to remain silent, leaving both Isith and her horse alone for the rest of the night. 

Farkas went over to her touched her elbow gently; he whispered something to her that Vilkas could not hear. At his words, Isith’s formerly icy gaze softened just a fraction and she nodded her head. 

_What did he say?_ Vilkas continued to watch with thinly veiled interest. He soon realized what Farkas had asked. His twin had been seeking permission. 

Farkas strode over to his horse and grabbed his bedroll that had been secured on the back of the saddle. He got Isith’s own roll from Shadowmere, who pawed unhappily at being touched by someone who was not his master. Vilkas sucked in his breath when Farkas laid the rolls out side by side, not half a foot from one another. 

The camp was weary throughout the night, every one of them tossing and turning, their minds heavy with the task before them. Aela proved to be so restless that she eventually got up to keep watch. The sun had just started to peek over the horizon when she woke them with an aggravated bark. 

Their journey to Winterhold followed this same pattern until they reached Ysgramor’s tomb. 

That night, huddled around a fire within sight of the tomb’s entrance, Isith ran over the plan Kodlak had detailed in his journal. She motioned to a bag containing a severed head of one of the Glenmoril witches. 

“We’ll need it,” she said dryly, “So don’t let anything happen to it on the way in there.” 

As she spoke, she rang her hands nervously, her eyes flitting from the Companion’s faces to the snow-speckled mound covering the tomb. Farkas occasionally reached a gentle hand out to stroke her shoulder in an effort to calm her and she responded each time with an appreciative glance and little more. 

Sleep did not come easily to any of them that night; they wanted to be at their best when they entered the tomb. There would be no room for failure... “ _For Kodlak’s sake_ ,” Isith had said. 

Vilkas had almost drifted off to sleep when he heard a shuffle to his right. He twisted around on his mat just in time to see Isith stand, careful not to disturb Farkas, and start off toward the tomb. She walked on her tip toes, mindful not to step heavily on the snow crunching beneath her boots. For several moments, Vilkas wondered if he should follow her. Just because she was in a foul mood did not mean he was going to put it past her to do something foolish. _Watch her try to enter the tomb herself_. 

Holding back a tired groan, he clambered up from his bed roll and started after her. He was even more careful than she had been as he navigated around Farkas’ soundly sleeping form. How anyone managed to get comfortable enough to snore while sleeping in a place like this was beyond Vilkas. But if anyone could manage it, it was Farkas. His larger twin’s heavy breathing covered any sounds he made as he followed after Isith. 

If she knew he was trailing her, she gave no sign. The woman continued to slink through the silver darkness toward the tomb. Like many ancient Nord burial sites, Ysgramor’s resting place was underground, covered by a semi-dome shape that sloped just high enough to be visible across the landscape. 

Isith climbed up over the dome with grace Vilkas did not know she possessed. She did not move quickly, each movement was deliberate, tentative but questing. Her earlier nervousness seemed to fade with every step. It was strange to watch her as she went and he paused long enough for her to descend into the open center of the dome. Vilkas doubted it was reverie for a long-departed hero that kept his woman from scrambling up. No, she moved like someone who was afraid of what lay ahead but, yet, pressed forward with quiet determination. 

_Has Ria’s death really changed her so? By Talos, this is not right…it is not like her._ Vilkas exhaled loudly so that a puff of white filled the air in front of him, tickling his cheeks with his own icy breath. He went on, no longer bothering to muffle his steps. He spied Isith standing in front of the entrance way. She was still save for the motion of her fingers as she hugged her cloak tighter. She did not turn as he approached, her eyes focused hazily on the monument that lay before her. 

He called out quietly to her, “Isith? What are you doing?” 

Green eyes flashed to blue for the briefest of moments before turning away once again. “I’m thinking, Vilkas.” 

“That is surprising.” He stepped closer to her and nudged her with his elbow in good humor. There was no movement at the corners of her mouth to suggest a smile. Vilkas sighed and resigned himself to ask what he suspected would not earn him an answer. 

“Thinking about what?” 

“Many things.” At this, Isith turned away and moved over to study one of the rounded walls. Her fingers traced over the ancient carvings that adorned it, tracing letters and symbols long forgotten. She spoke after a moment. “You know,” she paused long enough to gather her thoughts, “I’m glad we came here, to this place, this…grave. Hmph, morbid, isn’t it?” Her lips quirked up at the thought, animating what was otherwise a stony expression. 

Vilkas did not know what to make off her admission. He shook his head. His patience could only stretch so far, even for her. 

“Why?” The question was rougher than he intended it. 

A particular section of wall caught Isith’s attention and she did not speak for a long time as she traced at it. Finally, she said, “I think this is what I need…not to help Kodlak but to help _myself_. By freeing his spirit –gods, if it’s even possible- I feel like it’ll be one good thing I can do. Justone thing, _one promise_ that I manage to keep.” She shook her head and her hood slipped off. She did not bother to fix it. “I’m not saying it’ll make up for what I’ve done. The blood on my hands is there to stay but-“ 

Vilkas clenched his fists and strode forward suddenly. “Isith-” 

She held up a hand to stop him and another to keep him from coming any closer. “What I’m saying is that this is start, Vilkas. Damn it, it may very well be an end, but it’s _something_. I don’t know how things will turn out when we return to Jorrvaskr but if I can do this…then, well, you understand.” 

For a long time the warrior stared at the assassin, the thief, whatever in Oblivion she _was_ ; he just looked at her, the fierceness of his eyes wavering somewhere between disappointment and admiration. He could not decide if she sounded like a woman who had simply given up, content to follow fate by the hand wherever it led her, or if she was finally coming to terms with the fact that the die had been cast and was steeling herself for the oncoming battle. 

He gritted his teeth as he decided exactly how he felt. 

He told her, “You are acting like a damned coward.” 

The bluntness of his words drew Isith’s gaze from the stone wall. Her eyes narrowed, nearly black in the night, and the embers of the fiery spirit they had once contained flickered to life once more. 

She rounded on him, her fists clutching at her sides. “Come again?” 

Vilkas did not relent; he had seen the spark light. He forced every bit of bitterness he could muster into his words as he spoke, “You really think that everything you’ve done can be made better by doing _this_?” 

He scoffed. “No, Isith, you are a fool to think that. You are talking like this because you’re too damn afraid of what is waiting for you. You want redemption _now_ because you’re not sure you are strong enough to face whatever that dread god and that crone have planned for you.” 

Isith took a step forward and shoved one hand angrily into his chest. Vilkas did not budge and he met her eyes as they locked onto his, searing in their intensity. 

She snapped, “Enough, Vilkas.” 

The warrior shook his head, dark locks tumbling into his face as he continued, “Do you think you will die when they come for you? For us? Is that it?” He stepped closer so that he was looking down his nose at her. “You think you are running out of time to amend the things you’ve done? I expected more fight from you, girl.” 

“Don’t call me that!” This time she planted both hands against his chest and shoved him backward. “I am no coward, Vilkas, I am tired of –“ 

He had her now. The fury that was boiling beneath rivaled what he had witnessed that day in the training yard when they had exchanged blows. 

“Tired of what, girl? Tired of carrying the weight of so many deaths on your shoulders? Or are you just tired of running from what you started?” 

Her fist collided with his jaw with such force that the resounded _smack_ and clatter of his teeth could be heard over the howl of the wind. Vilkas stumbled back, rubbing at the offended spot as his senses returned. He had braced himself for it and found himself grinning like an idiot as he took in the sight of the infuriated woman in all her glory before him. 

The pain seeping throughout the left side of his face was worth it. _There she is…thank Talos._

Isith’s eyes burned into him, their ire only growing brighter as she saw the smile on his face. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she thought of different curses to throw at him. Her lips pressed together, drawing the scarred skin tight across her face as she fought to hold back an incensed yell. She was beautiful. 

Finally, words came to her, but not before she looked as if she was about to hit him once more for good measure. “You’re a real son-of-bitch, Vilkas, you know that?” 

Vilkas stretched his jaw before speaking, ignoring the wincing pain that remained. “I’ve been told that before on occasion, usually by this infuriating, little blonde Nord woman.” 

Isith shut her eyes and shook her head, chuckling to herself. “I’d say thank you but I don’t want to inflate your ego.” 

Vilkas shrugged and replied, “Words of thanks are unattractive coming from a woman like you. Now, I think it is time you returned to camp. Farkas will be cold without you.” 

Isith started toward the stairs but paused in front of him long enough to ask, “And what about you, Vilkas?” 

Vilkas’ eyes widened, somewhat taken aback. He had not expected those words. “Me? I’m always cold, Isith.” 

She shook her head and this time there was no smile. “That’s the truth.” 

……………………………………………………………………………… 


	23. Chapter 23

It had been a long time since Isith had been so relieved to leave a place. Seeing Kodlak again had been hard. Hearing what he had to say had been harder. She was the new Harbinger…and she was not pleased. 

_I’m the Harbinger? I’m the Harbinger._

“Aw, fu-“ Isith caught herself before she finished speaking the words aloud. 

She rode like a bat out of hell after bidding her mentor goodbye, his soul safe and at peace in the halls of Sovrngarde. The other Companions followed suit. Vilkas was flabbergasted. Aela was furious. And Farkas…Farkas was still recovering from the spiders, too busy frantically swatting the remaining cobwebs from his arms and hair to pay any attention to the recent development. 

Regardless of how she felt about being appointed leader of the Companions, she could not deny the small comfort the title provided. Surely the remaining Companions still had enough respect for Kodlak to adhere to his wishes. If that was to be true, they would certainly rally around her should the worst come to pass if the Dark Brotherhood made good on their promises. Even as she considered this, she mentally chided herself. 

_Am I such a fickle creature? To accept responsibilities on a whim so long as they suit me?_ Isith sighed heavily, the sound covered up by a well-timed snort from Shadowmere. _These people owe me nothing and, yet, perhaps they will follow me_. _It seems Kodlak has left them little choice. Hmm…this makes me what? Head of three guilds? I need to hire an assistant. Or a housecarl._

Eventually, the sky above grew dark as dusk approached. Streaks of orange and purple urged away the formerly blue horizon. Isith had been too lost in thought to consider stopping to make camp and continued riding on as twilight settle around them. 

Aela’s voice cut through the air, starling Isith so that she jerked in her saddle. “Are you planning on settling in for the night or are you going to keep us going all the way through Winterhold, _Harbinger_?” 

Isith whipped Shadowmere around so that Aela found herself at the mercy of a rather unsettling glare. _Mean, nasty, red-headed hagraven of a woman!_ Isith bit back the insult that was threatening to spill from her lips and replied instead, “I had a destination in mind, Aela. There is an inn not far from here.” _I think_ ….Isith was fairly certain they were on the right track. She did not know Winterhold as well as a native but she had traveled the road to the mage’s college enough to know there was an inn somewhere. They were a good distance from the town of Winterhold and the stretch of road they were on seemed familiar. 

Isith sniffed the air, her werewolf senses kicking in, and sure enough the faint smell of food and fire was present in the air. They were not so far after all. Spending the night at the inn would cause for a slight detour but after what they had been through, Isith felt that they all deserved a decent rest. Not to mention it would spare her the embarrassment of admitting she had not had any particular destination in mind. 

The inn was a tiny building, settled just off the main road and nestled among a patch of trees. They reached it within the hour and dismounted their horses with various moans of relief. Farkas was especially happy at the thought of a hot meal. 

As he tied his horse off, he looked around and asked, “Who’s hungry?” 

Vilkas patted his brother on the back. “We’re all hungry, Farkas.” 

As Isith unloaded a few things from her saddlebags, she watched the brothers’ exchange. The relief they felt from helping Kodlak was evident and they were both in a better mood for it. 

She could not resist baiting Farkas. Smiling, she said, “Running from spiders really does something for a man’s appetite, it seems.” 

The man’s bright blue eyes flashed to hers before looking away again sheepishly. He mumbled, “ _Hmph_. I squished as many as I ran from.” 

They wasted no time heading inside and arranging rooms for the night. The inn was empty except for them and the owners. A traveling bard strummed at a lute in one corner of the dining room, happy to have travelers for which he could play. Dinner was hot and they all ate it gratefully in relative silence, listening to the not-so-gentle melody of the young bard’s instrument. 

When they had finished, Aela was quick to retire to one of the rooms Farkas had arranged for the night, leaving Isith alone with the twins. Every few seconds, Vilkas would glance between his brother and Isith. If he was jealous, he hid it well. His gaze was nothing more than pensive, resting longer on the woman in front of him. Even Farkas seemed to notice. 

“You look like you want to ask her something, Vilkas.” 

The smaller twin quickly turned his eyes to meet Farkas’, his face a mask of panic for the briefest moment. Isith did not miss it and she would not have been lying if she had admitted her own heart skipped a few beats before she realized that Farkas had no underlying meaning behind the question. 

Vilkas seemed to register the same thing as well and he relaxed once again. “I do.” 

Farkas took a swig of mead from his mug, smiling even as he drank. He glanced at Isith and said, “I can read him like a book.” 

Isith chuckled and reached out to pat his knee. She was not expecting it when his hand moved to cover hers just as she started to move away. His hands were warm and Isith could not help but interlock her fingers with his. She had almost forgotten what the feel of his hand in hers was like. She forced herself out of her reverie and returned her attention to Vilkas. This time, he was looking away. 

The bard seemed to have caught his attention all of a sudden and it was a long moment before he asked, “Are you ready?” 

Isith raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Ready for what?” 

“To be the Harbinger.” 

She almost laughed. He had to be kidding. “Oblivion, no!” Her eyes twinkled and she nudged the toes of both brothers’ boots with her own. “I’m a thief and an assassin. Kodlak should have known better. If you ask me, you and Farkas ought to split the duties.” 

Farkas chuckled beside her and squeezed her hand. “Yes, he can be Har and I’ll be Binger.” 

At this, both Vilkas and Isith stared at him blankly before cracking smiles of their own. Isith shook her head, sighing dramatically. “Maybe it’s best if I keep the job after all.” 

The moment passed and Vilkas grew serious once more. “Farkas and I will support you, of course. The others will need time to accept it. Especially with all that is going on.” 

It suddenly struck Isith that he really was serious. She had expected him to fuss for days over Kodlak’s decision. In fact, she hadn’t been certain she would ever hear the end of it. Farkas, too, seemed unsure of his brother’s blatant acceptance. 

He allowed Isith’s fingers to untangle from his and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he looked at his twin more intently. 

Vilkas met his eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, Farkas.” He glanced over at Isith and went on, “I believe that with proper guidance, Isith can lead us effectively.” 

“Lead you effectively?” Isith’s voice rose several octaves. “I don’t want to lead you at all! I’d be content to return to Jorrvaskr and wait out my days worry-free before the Brotherhood comes for me.” 

Again, Vilkas did the unexpected. He grinned at her. “You’ll be fine, I think. You’ve proven that several times over.” With that, he stood and bid them both goodnight, leaving little chance for either of them to respond. 

When he was gone, Farkas leaned back in his chair. He stretched his arms behind his head, his armor creaking over his muscles. Isith crossed her own arms over her chest and looked away. 

“Strange,” she said quietly. 

“Yep.” 

She cut her eyes over at Farkas’ face, willing herself to read his thoughts. It was to no avail; Farkas’ thoughts could not be analyzed based on what was on the exterior alone. 

Isith ignored the nervous feeling in her chest. Why was he looking at her like that? His eyes traveled across her face, his head tilting ever so slightly. 

With a grumble, Isith told him, “I’m not ready for this, you know. I don’t want this.” 

“I know.” 

“You do?” 

“Yep,” he reached out one hand and ran it along her scarred cheek, “But Vilkas is always right. You’ll do fine.” 

“Maybe I should name someone else as soon as we get back. In case…well, let’s just say I might not have the chance to be the Harbinger for very long.” 

Upon hearing her words, Farkas’ face changed. He narrowed his eyes, the thick black brows above them knitting together. He moved forward and took her hands in his. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Isith. They’ll have to go through me first.” 

Isith offered a small smile. “Hmm, there _is_ an awful lot of you, big guy.” 

“Indeed there is. I’ll have to show you sometime.” 

His words took a moment to register and Isith drew back in surprise. Momentarily, Farkas looked as if he feared he had crossed a line until he saw the devilish grin spread over Isith’s lips. 

She scolded him. “Don’t tease.” 

He shrugged. “You always say that.” 

“Do I? Hmm,” She put a finger to her lips, “I wonder why.” 

The man before her smirked and looked away. In the firelight, the twinkle in his eyes began to fade, replaced by the reflection of the flames in the pit. It did not go unnoticed by Isith and she reached out, letting her hand graze his elbow. 

“You’re acting strangely, Farkas.” 

He responded with an off-sounding murmur. She realized quickly that his sudden despondency stemmed from something other than her good-natured reproach. “Farkas, what is it?” she asked. 

With the hum of the bard in her ears, she reached out to tuck a lock of thick black hair behind his ears. 

“I’m only thinking.” 

Isith mused aloud, still running her fingers through his hair, “You seem to do that more than people like to believe.” 

“Does that bother you?” 

“No, not at all. It simply makes you ever-so hard to read, unlike your brother-“ 

He cut her off. “That’s who I was thinking about. And you.” 

Isith could not hold back an audible _uh-oh._ Farkas noticed and raised his brow curiously. He recovered surprisingly quick and replied in a steady voice, “I never saw myself as jealous much.” 

_Oh boy, here we go._ Isith glanced at the door with the fleeting notion to bolt out of it. Instead, she satisfied her reluctance to discuss the topic by rubbing her face in her hands. She kept her voice soft, careful not to offend him, as she said, “I thought we’d been over this, Farkas.” 

She sighed when she saw his face fall. He looked away. “I’m sorry,” she reached a gentle hand out to his chin and turned his face to her, “Look at me.” 

Farkas spoke before she could continue, “Make me a promise, Isith.” 

“Of course.” 

“I didn’t miss it the other night when Vilkas followed you away from camp,” At his words, Isith blushed, wanting desperately to look away. She forced herself to hold his eyes. She was not ashamed. Nothing had happened. 

She saw all too clearly where this was going. “You want me to promise that there is nothing between your brother and me? Farkas, I swear-” 

Farkas held up a hand to hush her, which he then laid back down on top of hers, clasping it tightly. “No, you’ve already promised me that. I believe you. This time I want you promise that whenever something is troubling you, you’ll come to me. I’ve got strong shoulders, Isith, strong enough for you to cry on.” 

Isith stared at him, her eyes so wide she looked like a young fawn who had just escaped the jaws of a wolf. As his words sunk in, her bottom lip trembled slightly and she pressed it firmly against her teeth to stop it. Could she do that? Go to him as he was asking? She had never been one to share her burdens with others. Yet, Farkas seemed convinced that she should trust him with such things. He wanted to be her confidant. Had he noticed how she always seemed to go to Vilkas or Brynjolf? _Not that it’s ever by choice…still, it seems to hurt him._ Indeed, she had never once considered that he might notice such things, much less be offended by them. 

She chose her words carefully, speaking slowly, and said, “Farkas, I…I never meant to go to anyone other than you. You would have been there just as surely as the others, I know that. But, you… you’re like this shade tree, something untouched by my troubles. I feel so protected, so safe, when I’m with you…I just never wanted to bring my worries to you.” 

“I can’t protect you if I don’t know what you’re afraid of, Isith. Vilkas says you’ve been having dreams and the thief talks about how tired you are when you think no one is looking…these other men know you better than I do. I think you’re the one doing the protecting, Isith. You’re protecting me from your troubles. I’m not the brightest but-” 

Isith narrowed her eyes. “Don’t say such things.” She lifted one of his hands to her mouth and kissed his fingers. 

Farkas took her interruption in stride, his eyes lighting up when he saw the seriousness in her eyes, a look that bordered on warning. “I can handle anything you throw at me. The Dark Brotherhood can’t have you unless they take me,” he paused and squeezed her hand, “Let me be your shield.” 

Had any other man said such a thing to her, she would have busted out laughing. However, coming from Farkas, the notion was strangely compelling. He was everything she needed, nothing more and nothing less. He was just Farkas, ready and willing to support her until the end whether she liked it or not. 

Isith nodded slowly, holding his gaze with hers. “Very well then, Farkas. I promise to always come to you whenever the world decides to kick me in the knees.” 

The big Nord smiled. “Good, because I’m going to kick it back.” 

Isith grinned at him happily, all too aware of the shift in the air. It was clearer now. She said, “Well, if that’s the case then I guess now is a good time to tell you all my dirty little secrets.” 

Farkas shot her a lopsided smile and leaned forward to whisper, “How dirty?” 

Isith chuckled, a sound that was quickly joined by Farkas’ own hearty laugh. She sat back, panting, and said, “Hmm, that’s enough teasing for the night, I think, I won’t be able to sleep if you keep it up. I’m going to bed.” She stood only to have Farkas grab her hand to stop her. 

“That’s a fine idea but,” he paused and stood up, taking a step closer so that his chest was against hers, “I only asked for three rooms. If you go to bed, I’m going, too.” 

Isith’s heart fluttered at the thought of being able to snuggle up to Farkas in the night. It looked like she would finally get the chance to find out if he snored. 

“You promise to keep your hands to yourself, big guy?” 

Farkas shook his head, “Nope.” 

Isith smiled back at him. “Good.” 


	24. Chapter 24

They arrived back at Jorrvaskr on the evening of the third day after leaving Winterhold. A decent night’s rest at the inn had put them all in a better mood and they had been able to discuss, somewhat civilly, how to reveal Isith as the newest Harbinger. 

Aela kept harping at her, “Remember, you’re not the official leader of anything. They’ll come to you for advice, that’s it. You’ve no power to demand otherwise.” 

Vilkas was quick to smooth over Isith’s ruffled feathers by reminding her that this was for the best since she would be busy keeping the thieves in line while preparing for any attack the Dark Brotherhood had planned. 

Farkas simply told her that stomping a few assassins into the ground would earn her enough respect to call herself Harbinger. 

Isith resisted rolling her eyes each time they spoke to her. She would manage. No matter how much she might gripe, she always had. However, if she did not have the twins to back her, she would have most certainly been more worried. As it was, should the Companions refuse to listen to her directly, they would at least heed anything Vilkas and Farkas might say on her behalf. 

When the horses had been stabled, they made their way up the ramparts and into the city. Jorrvaskr was only a short walk and they covered the distance quickly, arriving at the mead hall just as everyone was sitting down for supper. Isith was relieved to find the place still in one piece. Obviously, Brynjolf had done a good job of keeping the peace while the Circle members had been away. He flashed her a grateful look as soon as she stepped through the door. 

Brynjolf stood from his spot at the table and made his way over to Isith. 

“Good to see you’re back, lass.” 

“It’s good to be back, Bryn. I see everything is well.” Isith looked around and motioned to the people dining peacefully at the table. 

“Indeed but,” Brynjolf stepped closer to her, draping his arm around her shoulders so that he could lean into her ear and whisper, “If you ever ask of me anything like this again, lass, I’ll put my boot in your arse.” 

Isith chuckled and shook her head, “Was it that bad?” 

Brynjolf shrugged and stepped back, noticing the not-so-subtle look of warning Farkas was directing at him. The bigger Nord was hovering nearby with his brother. Brynjolf shrugged apologetically before looking back at Isith. 

“Well, for starters, Niruin and that Dark Elf almost killed each other. Then that fellow Torvar decided to challenge Thrynn and Cynric to a drinking contest. Bloody mess, that was.” 

Isith turned up her lip and tried to shake the image from her mind. Her hand went out to pat him on the shoulder sympathetically. “No worries now, Bryn. We’re back. Plus, we have an announcement to make.” 

As if on cue, Vilkas called the room to silence. He spoke loudly and with pride as he said, “Shield-siblings, it seems we have a new Harbinger, one who will lead us through the battles ahead,” he turned and glanced back at Isith, who was hiding behind Brynjolf rather effectively. “Isith has been named our leader. I hope you all have the good sense to welcome her as you would me or Aela.” 

Nearby, Farkas grumbled, a sound that only those closest to him heard. Isith reached out her arm and nudged him. She gave him a look that seemed to say “Would you really want to be in my shoes?” and he managed to crack a smile. 

She paid little attention to the rest of Vilkas’ speech, only catching the parts where he tactfully threatened the other Companions into complying with any orders she might give. When all was said and done, Isith stepped up with what grace she could muster and met the room-full of cold and displeased eyes. For good or for bad, she was their Harbinger now and they would have to learn to accept it. 

_Hah! Easier said than done. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink._

After that, dinner continued without interruption and the announcement seemed to be forgotten. Brynjolf was quick to borrow Isith from Farkas, whisking her away to seat her at amongst the thieves. She tried to object on the grounds that it made her look bad not to take her first meal as Harbinger with the Companions but Brynjolf made the very astute point that she looked bad anyway. Isith grumbled in response and continued to eat her meal with a scowl. 

Swallowing down a mouthful of bread, Brynjolf told her, “I’ve taken the liberty of warning the guards that trouble may be coming to Jorrvaskr over the next few weeks. It seems you had some favors up at Dragon’s Reach.” 

Isith nodded and said that she did. 

“Well,” Brynjolf continued, “It’s a good thing because the guards have promised to keep an eye for trouble during the night shifts. Lookouts have been posted in the towers along the roads and walls. The Jarl appears to think you make a very valuable thane.” 

Isith scoffed, popping a piece of meat in her mouth and chewing as she replied, “That and the Companions are damn handy in a fight. I’d want to protect them, too. Oblivion, I _do_ want to protect them.” 

Brynjolf nodded in agreement. Just as she started to swallow, Isith suddenly choked on her food. She reached for her drink and washed it down, clearing her throat as she did so. The thief reached to pat her back, chuckling as he watched her. Isith swatted his hands away. 

“Gods, wait a minute, Brynjolf! You didn’t tell them that -” 

“That you managed to royally piss off the Dark Brotherhood? No, lass, I just said there might be trouble. ‘Justice-hating bandits and filthy curs’ were the terms I used, I think. No worries, lass.” He elbowed her with a smile. “But, you understand, I had to say something. The guards had to be warned.” 

“Now, that doesn’t sound like you.” Isith smirked at the auburn-haired Nord and poked him in the shoulder playfully. 

Brynjolf looked away, his eyes darkening. “There’s no telling what those assassins are playing at. I don’t want innocent people getting hurt because of-“   
  
“Because of me?” Isith’s face grew serious. 

She did not mean it accusingly. _I understand. Thank the gods Brynjolf was here…I might not have been so thoughtful._ The idea frightened her beyond words. Had she really just thought such a thing? She quickly told herself she was simply getting too worried to think clearly. Once again, she was happy she was no longer alone. 

The thief nodded slowly, careful not to seem overeager in his response. He relaxed again when Isith said, “Thank you, Bryn. It was a wise thing to do.” 

His worries were gone, replaced instantly by his roguish grin. He grabbed a new bottle of mead and tipped it toward Isith before gulping it down. “Anytime, darling.” 

………………………………………………………………… 

Isith took Kodlak’s quarters as her own that night. She managed to secure a spare blanket and sheets from Tilma after stripping the old ones off the bed. Sleeping on Kodlak’s seemed wrong, almost blasphemous, and she could not stand to lay down on them. After a bath, she slipped into her nightclothes and slid under the coarse linens. 

_I’ll have to remember to buy new ones,_ she thought as she snuggled into the pillow beneath her head, its fluffiness engulfing her like a cloud. 

A knock at the door caused her to rise once more out of the bed, cursing under her breath. She threw open the door to find Farkas standing there, shirtless in all his bare-chested glory. Whatever regrets she had about leaving her pillow behind were quickly forgotten. 

He smiled when he saw her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in genuine amusement. 

Isith leaned away, looking at him suspiciously. “What?” 

Farkas shook his head. “Nothing.” He stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. “I almost forgot that this is your room now. I started to go to the barracks down the hall.” 

Isith shrugged. “So did I.” 

She was all too aware of the man in front of her, of the utter masculinity he exuded. It had been a long time and her body began to ache just from looking at him. The night at the inn she had spent in his arms had been much better-behaved than she had expected. She would have never pegged Farkas as the type to enjoy the game but it seemed she was wrong. This man knew how to tease. 

“Well, I just came to check up on you.” A smile broke over his lips as he spoke. 

“Uh huh,” Isith crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow at him, “Is that why you closed the door?” 

Like a child that had been caught with his hand in the cookie-jar, Farkas grinned and looked away bashfully. Isith laughed to herself, shaking her head in amusement. _Hmm…he’s cute but enough with the games. A girl’s gotta get hers sometimes._

Spurred by the thought, Isith stepped forward and pressed the very tips of her fingers against Farkas’ chest. She looked up at him, smiling. 

“I think I know why you’re here, Farkas.” 

She ran her fingers up the plains of his stomach, tracing each muscle, pleased with the way they remained taunt beneath her hands. Farkas stepped into her just as her arms snaked around his neck. She tugged him down to her and raised herself on her tiptoes so that she could meet him half way. Their mouths crushed together, too hungry to follow any particular rhythm. Tongues tasted, lips parted, and teeth nipped as they explored each other’s mouths. 

Isith moaned, pressing herself harder against him. It had been too long since she had held him like this. 

Farkas responded with a heady sound of his own, his breath gusting softly against the heated skin of her lips. He trailed his fingers up into her hair, toying with the locks that were just long enough to be played with. 

“Isith…” The woman in his arms groaned in response. She shut her eyes tight and let herself listen to rumble of his voice as he repeated her name over and over again. 

“Isith,” she smiled against him, nipping his bottom lip. 

“Isith,” this time it was more of hiss, a sound bordering on pain and passion. 

“Isith,” her head lulled at the call that was more of a growl. 

“ _Listener!_ ” 

Isith wrenched herself away as if she had been scalded by hot water. Her hands went to her eyes, rubbing frantically to erase the sight that was not there…the sight that _could_ _not_ be there. The form before her was not Farkas’. It was one she did not recognize; it had neither the bulk of the Nord, nor his height. Covered in black robes that shimmered, confusing the eye as they flowed, the figure stepped toward her and she shrieked. A horrible thought occurred to her as sudden recognition smashed her in the face like an armored fist: this was not the Nightmother. 

Isith reeled backward to put distance between her and the figure. Her hands went out for any sort of object that could serve as a weapon. Luck was on her side and her fingers wrapped around the hilt of a dinner knife that had been left on a nearby table. She gripped it tightly and swung out with it. Her hand and the knife glided through the robes of the figure, finding no more resistance in them than if she would had she sliced through air. 

An impossibly loud laugh filled the air, cruel and cold, and surrounded Isith, ringing in her ears to the point of madness. 

In a voice too deep to be human, it said, “I tire of you, mortal.” 

Suddenly, with an inhumanly fast movement, the figure was on her. It gripped her wrist and twisted it so that she was forced to release the knife. The very fingers that it held her with singed her flesh, burning away the skin like candle wax. 

Isith cried out, struggling to pull away, but the figure held her like a vice. The figure spoke again, its voice hissing in her ear, more terrifying than any dragon she had ever faced. “Your gravest mistake was denying me, Listener.” 

It tossed her to the wall like a ragdoll. Isith collided against the stone with a yelp, her head slamming painfully back against the stone. Warm liquid oozed from the back of her scalp, soaking the pale hair of her head. 

Before she could even begin to move, she was pinned down once more. One hand, gloved and black, wrenched her arms above her head, while another came to rest against the space between her breast and collar bone. 

“I will give you one chance to appease me, Listener, one chance before I rip this world out from under you.” It forced the hand against her chest, pressing its fingers and palm into the depth of her skin. The fabric of her gown smoked, melting into the flesh as it seared. She endured one final message before the pain subsided. 

“ _I will not be denied_.” 

………………………………………………………………………………….. 

Vilkas thought he was dreaming when he heard the screams. They were loud, so _loud_. And, in an instant, he knew he had heard them before. 

“Isith!” he said her name aloud as he bolted upright, sleep retreating from his body quickly as it was replaced by adrenaline. He scrambled from the bed and ran out into the hallway. Above the screaming he heard his brother calling for help. The other twin’s voice rumbled, tinged with desperation and fear as its sound reverberated off the walls, echoing down throughout the hallway. 

As he strode toward Isith’s quarters, Vilkas nearly collided with Brynjolf, who was only half-dressed and still bleary-eyed. Up and down the hallway, Companions and thieves alike were peeking out of their rooms. Vilkas had nearly made it to Isith’s door when he was grabbed by the collar and forced against the nearest wall. Brynjolf came nose to nose with him, his hand fisting the smaller man’s shirt. 

“If that brother of yours has hurt her, so help me Talos, I’ll-“ 

Vilkas slammed his hand down on the thief’s wrist to break his hold and shoved him away. His eyes flashed yellow in the dim light and there was little he could do to hide it. Brynjolf blinked several times at the sight, unsure if the shadows were playing tricks on him. 

Vilkas did his best to control his rage as he snapped, “Do not threaten me, now, thief. We’re wasting time.” 

Brynjolf backed away, nodding grimly, before turning to hurry through the doors with Vilkas at his heels. When they reached Isith’s bedroom, Farkas was kneeling in front of her, struggling to hold her as she screamed. She fought and kicked, her eyes wide open but unseeing. 

Vilkas sucked in a deep breath of air. “Oh Talos, it’s just like before.” 

Farkas turned his eyes to his brother. They were pleading and filled with worry. “She’s hurt!” he growled, “Something’s hurt her!” 

Sure enough, Vilkas spied the bloodied front of her nightgown. His eyes went wide in horror. _So much blood…_ One of Farkas’ hands was steeped in crimson from his hold on her wrist. 

Farkas turned back to Isith and yanked her to him, spinning her struggling form so that her back was pressed to her chest. He spoke to her, his voice too low for even Vilkas to hear. Only the deep timbre of his brother’s voice could be heard, the rumble itself obscuring any words that were spoken. 

It took several long moments before Isith finally stilled, her legs kicking out one last time and driving Farkas back against one of the bedposts. He did not release her as she sagged in his arms. Instead, he lifted her up and laid her across the bed gently. Vilkas and Brynjolf rushed over to her, jostling Farkas out of the way. He allowed it, only to move to the far side where he could prop himself against the edge and lean over to Isith. 

_Is she breathing?_ Vilkas did his best to remain calm as he checked for her breath. He sighed in relief when he felt the steady puffs of warm air against the back of his hand. Indeed, she was alive though her eyes remained closed as though she was asleep. 

Beside him, Brynjolf spoke. “How bad is she hurt?” 

Vilkas looked to his brother, who reached to move aside the remnants of one side of her gown from around her shoulder. The wound there caused them all to draw back with a gasp. A hand print, sprawling and brunt deep within the flesh, had been imprinted against her upper chest. Her wrist was burnt in much the same fashion. 

_Not again, this cannot happen to her again_ . Vilkas fought the urge to strike something, namely the thief at his side. Instead, he turned to the man and barked an order for him to go get Evrim. 

A forth voice interrupted just as Brynjolf began to respond. 

“I’m already here, boy.” The three men in the room turned to look at the mage who was waiting in the doorway. He, like most of them, was dressed in only his nightclothes, which oddly enough resembled his day clothes, being the same color and fashion. 

Evrim’s normally regal-looking face was grave as he approached the bedside. “What happened?” 

At that, all three men looked to Farkas. The big man shrugged his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair. 

“I…came in here to tell her goodnight and she just started screaming. It was like something attacked her. Sure enough, she started to bleed, right out of thin air.” He shot up from the bed with unexpected speed and rounded on the mage. “What did I do?” 

Nearby, Vilkas shook his head. It pained him to see both his brother and Isith in such states. _Poor fellow…_ Vilkas knew exactly what it was like to feel as though he had been the cause of Isith’s suffering. He did not envy what Farkas felt at the moment. 

Evrim did not reply to the Nord’s question. Instead, he bent low over Isith’s sleeping form and went to work. His hands began to glow as he focused his healing magic on the burn across Isith’s chest. The other men in the room did not miss his exasperated growl of frustration after several moments of healing. 

The elf turned, his eyes ablaze with confusion and anger. “I can do nothing with this!” he snapped. 

Brynjolf was the first to step forward. He jabbed a finger at Evrim’s chest. “What do you mean ‘you can do nothing?’?” 

The High Elf scowled at him and whirled back around to try again. Once again, nothing happened. The flesh was not mending. Evrim stopped with a sigh. “There is nothing a can do. Whatever force caused that damage is stronger than what magic I have. I am sorry.” 

Vilkas’ eyes narrowed and he looked at Isith and then back to Evrim. “Will she survive?” 

Evrim nodded. “No doubt. Her mind is likely recovering from the experience. Someone should set with her, just the same.” 

All three men volunteered. Evrim shook his head and sighed. Without another word, he left the room, casting one final perplexed glance at the sleeping woman before disappearing through the doorway. 

Farkas propped himself up on the other side of the bed, settling in next to Isith’s resting form, while Brynjolf and Vilkas chose seats nearby. Neither of them was exactly content to be so far from her but they said nothing. 

Nearly an hour passed when Isith opened her eyes. She sat up with a groan and looked around. All three men had fallen asleep. Vilkas was the first to awaken, a lighter sleeper than the rest, and he stood as soon as he saw Isith looking back at him. 

“You’re awake, thank Talos!” 

Isith scowled and let herself plop back down on her pillow. She didn’t look at him as she said, “That was a damned nasty dream.” 

Vilkas walked quietly over to her, careful not to disturb Brynjolf as he passed him. He paused at the side of the bed and basked in the feeling of relief as it washed over him. _By Ysgramor, I was so worried. To have her attacked in such a way I cannot defend her._ He did not dare fool himself into thinking his nerves could take much more of this. 

As Isith started to wiggle around again, shifting the covers this way and that, Vilkas reached out to still her. 

“You shouldn’t move so much, you’re hurt.” He could not stop himself from stretching out his fingers to smooth the hair away from her face. He smiled when she cut her eyes over at him, clearly annoyed by the attention. 

“I feel fine.” 

As if to prove her point, she sat up. Vilkas hissed at her and made a move to coax her back down again when he noticed the burn on her chest had faded. He blinked and leaned in closer. Isith swatted at him and turned her barely covered breasts away. 

“Vilkas!” 

He ignored her although this time he reached for her wrist, lifting it up so that he could examine it. 

“By Ysgramor, it’s healed!” he exclaimed. 

Isith frowned at him. “They can’t hurt me through me dreams, Vilkas. Not permanently, anyway. That’d be cheating.” 

Beside them, Farkas finally started to stir. His eyes fluttered opened and adjusted quickly, surprised to find Isith sitting up and talking. 

He pushed himself up from his spot on the bed and looked at her. “You okay?” 

Isith nodded. “Peachy.” 

She glanced over at Brynjolf and called out to him. The thief jerked awake and stood quickly. He pointed at her unmarked chest and gaped. Vilkas wanted to hit him. Had his eyes really gone to her chest first? _Bah! The company she keeps._

Isith held out a hand to silence her fellow thief. “It healed,” she explained. Before anyone else could say anything further, she continued, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to sleep. We can speak of this in the morning. Or not, which is just as well.” 

Vilkas started to respond but all he received was a stern look and he quickly bit his tongue. He had more than one question he wanted to ask her and he was not in the mood to wait. But, since she had asked so very politely, he figured he could contain himself until breakfast. It would give him time, after all, to figure out what in Oblivion he was going to tell the others. He nodded, but not before giving her a good solid glare, and turned to leave. Brynjolf received much the same treatment it seemed, because the thief followed after him a moment later. 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….. 

Isith fell back against the bed with a huff. She opened her eyes long enough to catch Farkas looking at her, his eyes searching hers for permission. She was not in the mood to give it. 

“You too, Farkas. Out.” She thumbed towards the door. 

“No.” 

“ _Out_.” This time her eyes remained open long enough to meet his with a glare. Farkas stared back at her, his blue gaze unwavering beneath hers. 

“Did I cause this?” 

_Really? **Really**?_ Beneath her calm exterior, Isith’s temper started to boil. She was thinking about too much to worry about Farkas’ insecurities right now. _For Talos’ sake, Sithis himself came to me! I have no patience for anyone at the moment. Gods, why did this even happen? Why would he come to me himself? Even the Nightmother was preferable._ The idea sent a shiver down her spine. Right now, all she wanted to do was be alone. 

“Isith…” Farkas reached for her only to find his hand being knocked away. 

“No, Farkas! You didn’t cause this,” she snapped, “I caused this. Now, would you please, for Talos’ sake, just leave?” 

Isith’s temper flared beyond her control and she struggled up far enough so that she could shove Farkas hard against the shoulder. Each word burned the back of her throat like acid and she knew she could not take them back. The last time she had snapped at him like this, they did not speak for days. 

He didn’t budge. Instead, his brow crinkled as he frowned and his broad mouth pressed together in a firm line. Before Isith could scramble away, he reached for her, wrapping one hand around her waist and pulling her to him in one easy movement. He shifted his weight so that he was half on top of her, holding her in place. 

Isith grumbled beneath him and pushed futilely against his arms. Farkas was having none of it. He pinned her arms beneath his with enough room to allow him access to her cheeks. From there, he stretched his fingers up, grazing her jaw and tracing the angle of the bone there tenderly. 

Isith sighed against his shoulder and gave up. Almost hesitantly, she rubbed her face against the warm skin at the crook of his neck. She took several deep breaths before she spoke, letting his scent calm her. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

“You should be. You scared me.” 

“I’ll try not to make a habit of it. Though, I make no promises.” 

Farkas nuzzled his face into her hair. His breath tickled the patch of skin behind her ear and she shifted uncomfortably against the bed. “Speaking of promises…” 

_He wants to know what I saw. Damn it._ It was not something Isith wanted to recount so soon. 

Finally, guilt got the better of her and she conceded. She wiggled her arms from under his and wrapped them around his body, nudging him over onto his back so that she could lie against him. They lay like that as she told him everything from the words Sithis had spoken to her to the way he appeared. The whole while, Farkas listened, stroking her hair and shoulders as she spoke. __

When she was finished, Farkas said nothing. He simply hitched her to him and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. Isith fell asleep with her head on his arm, her body nestled securely against his. For the first time that night, she felt as if nothing, not even Sithis himself, could touch her. 

…………………………………………………………………………. 


	25. Chapter 25

Isith spent the majority of the next day in the training yard. She beat just about everyone senseless and any Companion who dared look at her the wrong way, she beat harder. There were whispers, of course, that she might be insane. 

Unfortunately, she wasn’t the only one to hear them. Cicero was particularly adept at eavesdropping, especially since few people seemed to notice him nowadays. They were becoming accustomed to his presence and he was tolerated to an extent though his hands remained bound a majority of the time. Isith would free him every now and then, though when she did, she hovered over him like a hawk. 

That day, she untied his hands and motioned him over the shaded porch area outside the mead hall. The two assassins sat down, Cicero rubbing his sore wrists while Isith poured him a mug of lukewarm water from a carafe on the table. Cicero drank down half of it gratefully, murmuring to himself cheerfully as the liquid spilled down the back of his throat. He sat the mug down with a _clink_ and nudged it over to his Listener. 

Isith waved her hand at it. “No thank you, Cicero. Go ahead.” 

Cicero shrugged and ignored the water for the time being. He glanced around, his beady eyes searching every corner thoroughly before he was satisfied. When they were alone enough for his liking, he leaned forward, his elbows spread across the table and shielded his mouth with his hands as he spoke. 

“Is the Listener aware that these,” he paused and thought of a satisfactory word, “ _brutes_ do not trust her?” 

Isith frowned at him. She had to tread carefully were Cicero was concerned. Dealing with him was not so different than dealing with a difficult child. She had to show him who was the boss without damaging his feelings and trust beyond repair. 

“I know they don’t trust me, Cicero,” she responded quietly, “I’ve given them little reason to do so.” 

“Cicero has tried to tell them how respectable his Listener is! He has! But they don’t listen, they call her a murderer-“ 

“They do?” Isith blanched. She was not aware such things had been said aloud. 

He nodded. “Yes! Listener,” he leaned so far across the table that his chest was nearly flat against it, “Cicero does not understand why you waste your time with fools.” He cocked his head at an odd angle and looked up at her expectantly. 

Isith couldn’t resist. She replied, “I’ve wondered about that myself, Cicero.” 

To anyone other than the madman in the jester’s outfit, it would have been painfully obvious that she was speaking to him. On some level, Isith regretted her words. Cicero had proven loyal thus far. 

The mad Imperial went on without batting an eye. “Cicero wishes the Listener would take his advice.” He sat back and folded his arms over his chest with a huff, the movement causing the bells on his hat to jingle. 

“What advice would that be-” 

She stumbled over her words suddenly as an idea struck her. She had been wasting precious time when she could have been making use of Cicero’s particular skill set. Isith slammed her hands against the wood table with such force that she nearly knocked over Cicero’s mug of water. He scrambled with more movement than was necessary to catch it and frowned when a bit of it sloshed onto his sleeve. 

“Cicero,” Isith beckoned him closer. As he leaned in, she whispered, “Did I tell you what the Night Mother said to me in my dreams last night?” 

Cicero’s eyes grew wide. “Noooo!” He clapped his hands together excitedly. 

“She said that Babette is planning something terrible. That undead bit-” Isith sighed, “ _Child_ has it in for us all. The Night Mother wants me to find out exactly what it is so that I can prepare. But, you see, Cicero, I can’t leave this place without risking these people turning on me. I need you to go to the Dawnstar Sanctuary and find out what Babette has planned.” 

Cicero giggled with absolute glee. It was a diabolical sound; Isith recalled that it had terrified her the first time she had heard it. 

“It has been soooo long since Cicero has had any fun! What does the Night Mother want Cicero to uncover for his Listener, hmm? Do tell, Listener! Don’t keep it a secret!” 

“I need you to find out what we’re up against, Cicero. I need numbers. And for Sithis’ sake, you cannot be seen!” 

“Oh ho, Cicero is a master at hiding in the shadows! Hehe, the little vampire will never know he is there!” 

“That’s good, Cicero. Are you ready to leave now? I need this done quickly.” Isith stood when she saw the Imperial nod his head, bells a-jingling. As an afterthought, she reached out and snatched the hat from his head. When he frowned, she explained that it might give him away and that he could only have it back upon his return. 

Isith made sure that he was armed, giving him a spare dagger, but warned him not to use it unless he had to. With that, she led him down to the stables and paid for him to borrow a horse. He begged her to let him take Shadowmere, or the “filthy beast” as he called the horse, and she promptly refused. One would most likely kill the other before they ever made it as far as Dawnstar and Isith did not want to risk losing her precious animal. 

Cicero was off and gone before noon had rolled around, leaving Isith to watch him go, wandering to herself if this had indeed been a wise decision. She did not think Cicero would betray her unless the circumstances proved to be extremely unlucky. If he could pull this off successfully, she would be ahead of the game. Knowing exactly what Babette and the Night Mother had in store for her just might help her save a lot of lives. 

When he was out of sight, Isith headed back to Jorrvaskr. Just as she was rounding the corner to the training yard, she saw Aela heading in her direction. She was unsure if she should be amused or dismayed at the sight of the lanky red-head barreling toward her. 

“Something wrong, Aela?” She stopped and folded her arms across her chest. 

The taller Nord woman came to a halt in front of Isith and jabbed one long finger in her Harbinger’s face. “Where is he?” she snarled, her teeth clenched. 

“Cicero?” 

“Yes!” 

“I sent him to Dawnstar.” 

Aela’s eyes blazed and she looked as if she was about to strike Isith. She snatched her hand away at the last minute and fisted it against her side in an effort to control herself. 

“May I ask why you would do such a thing, Harbinger?” 

Isith moved so that she was standing toe to toe with the other woman, tilting her head up to look Aela in the eyes. “I sent him to see if he could discover anything about what the Brotherhood is planning. Other than me, he is the only one who knows enough about them to stand a chance at being even remotely successful. Think about it, Aela, if we know what’s coming, there’s a chance none of the people will have to die. If we can prepare-“ 

Aela silenced her by raising her hand. Something in the woman’s eyes softened and she nodded her head cautiously. “I see.” She took a step backwards and sighed. “Had it been me, I would have sent a group of the thieves but, perhaps we have held the fool here too long. I can…understand your reasoning, Isith. Let’s hope he proves loyal.” 

If Isith hadn’t heard the words come out of the woman’s mouth herself, she never would have believed it. She inclined her head respectfully to Aela, relieved to have established some sort of truce, momentary though it might be. If the other Companions followed in Aela’s footsteps, then she might just stand a chance of getting them to band together long enough to survive. 

No longer was it a question of _if_ the Dark Brotherhood would attack, it was _when_. Her exchange with Sithis had assuaged any lingering doubts she’d held. 

When her encounter with Aela was over, Isith turned to go back inside. So far it had proven to be an unusually warm day in Skyrim and Isith discovered she was one of only a few Companions who had opted to spend time indoors. Whether they were training or spending time at the Bannered Mare, Isith did not know. 

She moseyed downstairs with no particular destination in mind and paused to check a few of the rooms for any sign of Brynjolf. What she needed him for, she could not remember off the top of her head and so she quickly forgot about it. 

Once in her own quarters, she was quick to remove her armor, sitting it aside to be polished and oiled later. She bathed quickly in from the water basin on her dresser, using a damp cloth to rinse away the dirt that had accumulated from training earlier that day. When she was clean, she took a seat in one of the chairs in the front room where she could keep an eye on the comings and goings down the hall. 

She enjoyed the time alone, more than she initially suspected she would, and used it to polish the leather of her armor until it was smooth and pliable under her fingers. 

_I used to keep it all in such good shape,_ she mused as she ran her fingers over the slick surface, _that was when I had the time, I suppose. No Dark Brotherhood to worry about, no thieves guild…just the worries of the day._

Truthfully, sometimes she missed the free-roaming adventures she’d had during her early days in Skyrim. Absently she wondered if she would ever go back to it once all her current troubles had passed. She did not know. 

Aloud, she scoffed. The noise escaped her before she could stop it and she discovered rather bleakly that there was little she could do to hold back the thoughts that accompanied it. _If I’m even still alive…hmm, maybe I’ll leave Skyrim altogether. To Oblivion with guilds and gods._

“Right…because that’s an option.” She mumbled the words to herself quietly, rolling her eyes. 

In an attempt to force the ideas out of her mind, she settled back into the steady circular pattern of buffing at the leather. Soon her fingers smelled of oil and her nails were caked with the greasy black residue of the polish. She sat her armor aside with sigh and stood to wash her hands once more. 

Too busy scrubbing at the nail-beds of her fingers, she did not hear the footsteps approach from behind her. A familiar voice spoke and she knew immediately that it was Rune. She jumped slightly and attempted to recover her bearing quickly when she heard the man snicker. 

Rune chuckled and waited for her to turn around before he told her, “And you tell us we’re not ready to fight assassins.” 

Isith frowned at him, her lips tugging downward unattractively. “If any assassins do manage to creep up on me, let’s hope I’m doing something a little more interesting than washing my hands.” 

“Yes, I suppose that would make for a rather anticlimactic ballad, wouldn’t it? _And the guildmaster of old was cut down while rinsing her hands in the water so…cold._ ” As he spoke the sing-song words to himself, his brow arched into his hairline and his lips pushed out in thought as he evaluated the impromptu lines he had just spoken. 

Across from him, Isith resigned to shaking her head, chuckling quietly. “If that’s the best sort of song my escapades earn me, you might as well forget it.” 

She tossed aside the rag she had been using to dry her hands and folded her arms across her chest. She eyed the thief curiously. 

“What do you need, Rune?” she asked. 

The Imperial shrugged and replied, “I just came to see if you would do us the honor of joining us tonight at the Bannered Mare.” 

“Who is ‘ _us_ ’?” It did not particularly matter what his answer was; her interest was already piqued, regardless. Rune gave her look as if to say “must you really ask?” 

Isith nodded in understanding. “Brynjolf and the others, then?” 

“Those would be the ones. We thieves keep such motley company, don’t you know?” Rune grinned at her. 

“Hmm, yes,” Isith mulled the idea over in her mind, “What’s the occasion?” Not that anyone from the thieves’ guild really needed any special reason to get happily drunk, still, she was curious. 

“No occasion really. Everyone is just sort of…taking time where they can find it. Just in case.” 

_Oh…well, that’s depressing._ “I see. Worried, are you?” Isith looked at him, forcing him to meet her eyes and urging him to give her honest answer. 

Rune shrugged, his shoulders rolling more smoothly than most peoples’ due to the natural fluidity of his movements. “You gave us all quite the scare last night. We are all getting a little antsy, if you don’t mind me saying.” 

_Then they feel it, too._ Isith didn’t know whether to fret or be relieved that she was not the only one who was ready for the entire situation to be over. She realized that in her self-centeredness she had not considered the fact that her troubles had unintentionally imposed on a large number of people. The Companions’ daily schedules and duties were out of whack and nearly half of the thieves in Riften had left behind their livelihoods on her behalf. 

Isith couldn’t help but wince at the thought. More than ever, she was in need of some relaxation. Her mind made up, she nodded in acquiescence at Rune. 

“I’ll be there.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Rune looked genuinely pleased. As he turned to go, he looked back at her and, somewhat sheepishly, told her, “Oh, and Brynjolf says you owe everyone a round.” 

Isith smiled and rubbed her face in the palm of her hand, pinching the bridge of her nose. _Should have known there was a catch._


	26. Chapter 26

The Bannered Mare that night was as boisterous as it had ever been. The extra patronage the group of thieves offered meant that the already cramped interior was even tighter than usual. Isith sidled through the crowd until she reached the corner that Brynjolf and the others had claimed. The men from Riften all raised their glasses to her when they saw her, hailing her with varying degrees of inebriated warmth. 

“There you are, lass.” Brynjolf slurred slightly and motioned for her take a seat on the arm of his chair. 

Isith opened her mouth to object when Cynric brazenly moved to guide her over to and forcibly perch her upon the uncomfortable length of wood. Reluctantly, she adjusted herself on the slim armrest, noting rather dismally that her hips were a bit too wide to make her perch comfortable. 

Before she knew it, a tankard of mead was being thrust at her and she accepted it. She sniffed the honey-colored liquid in distaste before taking the smallest of sips. She briefly wondered if she could get away with nursing this same mug all night without any refills. 

Isith swallowed down another tiny mouthful of the bitter drink before she finally replied, “Yes, here I am.” 

“You look nice.” 

She popped Brynjolf across the head when she saw his eyes start to wander over her appraisingly. 

In an effort to explain her choice to dress for the night, she quickly added, “I polished my armor earlier. It was sticky.” 

That _was_ actually the true reason why she had not worn the familiar, comforting leather that was so much like a second skin. Instead, she had opted for a rather androgynous outfit of leather pants and a loose fitting shirt and vest. She had not been out to impress when she had been dressing and she was fairly certain that the shirt she was wearing was possibly belonged to Vilkas. 

_It smells like him_ , she realized with restrained horror. _Ack! I should not even know what he smells like…forget it, forget it!_ _Why didn’t I notice that earlier? The way scents mingle together at Jorrvaskr…oh bother, it’s best that he does not see this. He would take it the wrong the way for certain. So would Farkas for that matter._

She gulped down a mouthful of mead at the thought. Brynjolf seemed to read her mind and he broke into a wide-faced grin. 

“Tactful, lass. If you had been looking for a shirt to borrow, I would have lent you mine.” 

Isith scowled into her tankard and swished the liquid around idly. Brynjolf nudged her gently and mouthed the word “relax.” This only caused her frown even harder at her drink, so much so that her eyes squinted into the depths of the hazy mead as she tried vainly to count the ripples. 

Brynjolf, always one to know when a topic was in desperate need of changing, said, “I see you sent the fool off earlier today. Reconnaissance, I presume?” 

Isith nodded. “Hopefully.” 

“Do you think we really have that much time, lass? After what happened last night-“ 

“I don’t know, Bryn. I can only hope at this point.” Isith gave him an apologetic look for having interrupted him. “The end of this entire mess is coming soon, I’d wager. Why else would Sit- err, well, why else would I have been attacked so viciously?” 

It was Brynjolf’s turn to frown and he gulped down what was left in his mug. Isith gladly handed hers over to him. He accepted it without much thought. 

“I’d say it was a final warning.” His voice was solemn with no hint of its usual mirth present. 

“My thoughts exactly.” 

Isith wore much the same expression, her features clouded. The dim light of the tavern only helped to darken her look further, deepening her eyes nearly to a black color. Her brow pinched together and for the first time Brynjolf really took notice of how the scars on her face changed her. Even the slightest of frowns caused the skin of her face to twist in such a way that she looked utterly cold-hearted. Right now, she looked as if she could drown someone in a mead barrel without a second thought. 

If he did not know better, he would have said she was every bit the assassin she used to be. 

He called her on it, albeit cautiously. “Are you alright, lass? Tonight was supposed to be about letting loose.” 

Isith’s dark gaze met his and he nearly flinched. Her eyes, ever so quick, caught the movement and her expression softened. She reached out and ran her fingers casually through the back of his hair. 

“I’m fine, Bryn. I know you’re all worried but, really, I’m fine.” 

Under her touch, the thief seemed to ease a bit, just in time to catch his name being hollered from one of the men. He turned his attention elsewhere, much to Isith’s relief, and she was finally able to settle into the company around her. 

She bought them all a round of mead, several in fact, and the night went on to pass without incident. It was Niruin who noticed that she had not been drinking and he eventually ordered her a tankard of cider, which she was all too happy to accept. 

_Ah ha! Now, this I can drink. No pig-swill for me._ She hummed in pleasure as the scent of spices and fruit wafted up from the mug. Not one to give a good thing time to go bad, she took a deep swallow of the warm spiced liquid and let it settle in her mouth before gulping it down. In the minutes that followed, two more mugs received the same treatment before anyone interrupted her thoughtlessness. 

Thrynn tore himself away from one of the tavern wenches long enough to waltz gracelessly over to her. Isith spied him before he ever got close and she did not bother to hold back the amused grin that spread over her face. 

“I’s sposed to do som’thing for you, guildmaster.” The burly, muscle-bound thief found himself leaning rather unceremoniously on his leader for support. 

Isith patted his arm tenderly. “Were you, now?” 

He nodded, swaying slightly on his feet so that Isith had to tighten her hold on him. Thrynn cleared his throat and called the others, who were nearly all as equally drunk, to attention. 

Isith was surprised to see Thrynn raise his tankard up high and begin a toast. “To Isith! Best damned guildmaster we ever did have! ‘Specially sin’ Mercer!” 

Isith felt a hand on her shoulder and she glanced over to see Brynjolf wink at her. 

She leaned down to his ear. “Did you put him up to this?” 

Brynjolf nodded and said that he had. “Someone had to do it.” 

Isith grinned back at him, more touched by the drunken toast than she let on. She started to thank them all aloud when Thrynn, his good sense long past gone, added one final statement. 

“Here’s hopin’ ye don’t get killed!” 

Amidst the whooping and hollering, Isith went rigid. Her muscles tensed and she shot up out of her seat, spilling Brynjolf’s drink in his lap in the process. In was inexplicable, even to Isith, as to what about Thrynn’s final words in the toast had affected her so. Of course there was always the possibility that she could die. She knew as much and it had failed to bother her thus far. 

_But to hear someone else say it…_ Isith shuddered. 

Sithis’ words replayed in her mind as if he were there beside her, speaking them in her ear. She had crossed a line that no Listener had ever dared cross and she was certain she would pay dearly for it. 

What would appease him? _My life? Of course, he wants your life, Isith you fool!_ Isith’s head spun at the thought. Hearing it from someone else, one of her own followers, succeeded in driving the point home like nothing before. 

_Well, I’ll be damned if he can have it._

The feeling of Brynjolf’s hand on hers brought her back to the present. He was looking up at her, his eyes full of concern. The damp patch on his armor from the spilled mead was forgotten as he waited for her reassure him that she was fine. 

Isith forced herself to nod, her head bobbing slowly up and down. Mustering what good humor she could, she turned to face the waiting group of men. A nervous smile spread over her lips and proved to be convincing enough for those who were too drunk to see past it. 

She muttered several words of thanks and even managed to hug Thrynn for his toast. He had done nothing wrong, after all. It was not long before they quickly returned to their merriment and she was forgotten. 

Isith cast her eyes back to her good friend and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Bryn. That…caught me off guard.” 

Brynjolf’s face remained concerned and she could see he was not convinced. She patted his shoulder, avoiding meeting his eyes with hers, and excused herself for the night. 

She was barely out of the door when she collided with something solid and unmovable. She bounced back with a cry, her hands flying out to catch herself before she hit the ground. There was no need, a separate pair of arms gripped her as she stumbled, and she was set upright once more. 

Farkas stood before her, his hands gripping her waist firmly until he was sure she was stable. 

“Farkas!” 

The big Nord’s eyes were full of genuine surprise. He turned her loose and ran a hand through his dark hair. “I didn’t know you were here. Thought you might have gone to bed early.” 

“No, no.” Isith backed away. _I wish I had. In fact, that sounds like a marvelous idea._ She quickly muttered something about having to go and whirled about, intent on hurrying away. 

In retrospect, she knew a move like that wouldn’t work. As she turned away quickly, she found that when she stepped forward, she did not make any progress. Farkas had her collar and he tugged her back gently before setting her firmly in front of him. 

“Are you alright?” 

Isith’s eyes narrowed, flashing in the moonlight. “I’m going to hit the next person who asks me that.” 

Farkas’ face twisted in confusion. “Well, you don’t look alright.” 

“Gee, thanks, big guy.” Isith whirled about on her heels and stomped away before Farkas could pull her back. 

He followed after her, matching every two of steps with one of his. “I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I know, Farkas.” _You never do, gods, you never mean anything to hurt me. I just want to mope. Alone._ Her body responded to her thoughts and she waved her hands at him as she hurried along. __

When he continued to follow her anyway, she let out an annoyed grumble. He tried on multiple occasions to reach for her and she batted his hands away in mid-step each time he did so. 

Finally, when he had pursued her to the steps of Jorrvaskr, he came to a halt. She heard him sigh, heavy and defeated, but she did not pause. With her back to him, she bit her lip, chewing at it furiously. 

Only when he called out to her did she waver in her retreat. 

“Goodnight, little one.” 

_Little one? First it’s “I hope you don’t die, guildmaster” and now it’s “little one” from Farkas?_

Isith stopped, her shoulders falling, and she reached to massage her temples. As her fingers worked at the skin there, she forced herself to breath. 

When she did speak, the desperation in her voiced shocked even her. “Farkas, wait.” She turned on the steps and was surprised to see that Farkas was no longer waiting at the bottom. He was a good distance away and had just started to descend the stairs leading to the market quarter. 

It hurt, seeing that he had left her there, but Isith knew deep down that she had deserved it. She looked over to him pleadingly, wordlessly begging him to come back. 

He did and she had him at her side once more a few seconds later. He held his arms out for her and she leaned against him, sighing. Her cheek rested against his chest and she spent a few long moments like that. 

“It’s been one of those nights, Farkas.” Her voice was muted by the fabric of his shirt as she nuzzled her face into him but he heard her just the same. 

“Figured.” One of his hands, heavy and warm, came to rest on the back of her head. 

Suddenly, he pushed her away, though not roughly, and stared hard down at her. His nostrils flared as he took several quick breaths. 

“Wait…is that Vilkas’ shirt?” 

Isith went so pale that her skin mirrored the shade of the moon above. Her mouth floundered for a moment as she fished for the best thing to say. 

“Err…it’s possible. I sort of just grabbed it from one of the dressers in the hallway.” 

A thick black brow arched high above one eye as Farkas examined the fabric more closely. “Yep, that’s his. I have one just like it.” 

“Well, I’ll just ask you next time I decide to don men’s clothing.” She hoped her attempt at humor would keep at bay any jealous lectures he might give her. 

It seemed he had no such intentions of doing anything of the sort and he only shrugged. 

Isith stepped away, carefully extricating herself from his grip. She squeezed his hand before she let go completely. 

“Don’t let me stop you from whatever you were doing.” 

“It can wait,” he replied. His eyes were soft in the hazy glow of the moonlight as he looked down at her and she couldn’t miss the look of sincerity in their depths. He slid his arm around her shoulder and began leading her up the stairs. “Come with me.” 

Isith agreed and allowed him to lead her. To her surprise, he steered her away from the entrance of Jorrvaskr and hung a left instead. He stopped when they reached the Underforge, slamming his hand out against the stone that would open the entryway. 

“Why are we going in here?” Isith asked, turning her eyes up to look at him. 

“Sometimes,” he replied, “I go in here to think. It’s quiet. You could use quiet right now.” 

They slipped into the darkness and waited for the wall to seal up behind them. A single torch burned across the room, casting shadows on the walls that danced with each step they took. Farkas picked a spot against one of the walls and slid down against it. Isith joined him, content to take a moment’s rest in his arms. 

He said nothing for a long time and Isith did not volunteer to make conversation either. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she heard the calming rumble of his voice. 

“You’re going to be alright, Isith.” 

His words caught her off guard and she scooted away so that she could see his face. “I hope so,” she said, “Though I worry more and more.” 

“I know you do.” 

When Isith started to turn away, he gripped her chin gently and urged her to look at him. 

“Come here.” 

It wasn’t an order but Isith obeyed regardless. She leaned in and let him take her lips with his. The kiss was tender at first, meant to reassure her. But in it she felt so much more. As his lips danced around hers, there was a promise that he would always be there and, in that, Isith could find peace. She let her fingers wander along his cheek, grazing the perpetual scruff there. 

She broke the kiss and pulled away with a breathy gasp, trailing her fingers down from his cheek to trace his lips. He smiled against the tickle of her fingers and closed his eyes as they continued their exploration. 

In a moment of boldness, Isith shifted onto her knees and swung one leg over his hips, adjusting herself so that she was straddling him. His eyes fluttered open at the sudden change in position and for the first time she saw uncertainty within their depths. 

Isith kissed him again, more passionately this time. “Thank you, Farkas.” She whispered between breaths. 

The kiss deepened, their tongues touching, swirling against each other. Farkas groaned beneath her and she couldn’t resist wiggling her hips. She gasped at what she felt there and her heart throbbed in her chest as excitement began to build. 

This time it was him who tugged away, nipping at her bottom lip as he did so. “Don’t tease me.” His voice contained notes of pleading that Isith didn’t know was possible. She shook her head in response and peered down into his eyes. 

“No more teasing, Farkas.” 

She flicked her tongue against his lip, humming to herself at their softness. Farkas’ hands went around her and he pushed her back so that he could stand, bringing her up with him. 

He pulled her to him, burying his face in the heat of her neck and nipped at the skin there, causing her to cry out. She did little to stifle the sound; the others would never hear through the thick stone walls. Involuntarily, her face went to nuzzle his and she found herself surrounded by the long, dark lengths of his hair; he smelled of ash and the wind, earthy and so maddeningly masculine that she found her fingers tangled in the locks, pulling him to her as she breathed him in. 

“Isith,” the syllables of her name were barely formed through the heat of his voice. She turned her eyes to him as he tugged away. Two callused fingers gripped her chin and Farkas leaned to brush his mouth against hers. 

Quietly, he said, “Tell me that you feel the same way.” 

“You doubt me?” 

For a moment, the passion began to ebb away, threatening to be replaced by uncertainty. She searched his eyes for any sign of hesitation and she found them clear and blue as only tenderness shown down at her. His hands slipped from her chin to encircle her face, the pads of his thumbs ghosting over her cheeks. Even through the deadened scar tissue she could feel the warmth. 

“Farkas, I…” _I love you._

For a moment, fear hitched in her throat. Those words brought with them promises that she may not be able to keep. Whatever flashed across her face at that moment was enough for him because he hushed her. 

A contented smile spread over his broad lips and he pressed them to hers. “You don’t have to say anything. I see enough.” 

With that, the barriers crumbled. They were in each others’ arms, no more words to separate them. Isith broke her mouth from Farkas’ and dragged her lips down to his chin. The sand-paper roughness was not unpleasant against the soft flesh. She pointed her toes to the ground so that she could reach his jaw, caressing every inch with kisses that were quickly becoming feverish. Farkas tilted his head back, his eyes closed, and his hands found the base of her head so that he urged her to continue. 

Her mouth wondered down the contours of his neck until they met the edge of his shirt. She pulled back long enough to shoot him a pleading glance. A flurry of hands, both his and hers, rushed to tug the buckles and knots loose. Piece by piece, clothing slipped to the ground and was kicked away. In the dim light of the Underforge, Isith could not help but stop and admire the man before her. He was beauty and power, every muscle and scar formed together in a way that drove her mad with desire. 

Farkas did not give her long to look as he swept her into his arms again. Isith ran her hands over the plains of his chest, grazing his dark nipples and earning in return a pleasured groan. He tipped his head down and took the edge of one ear between his teeth, nipping with just enough pressure to distract Isith from his hands they worked her shirt and breast band up over her head. 

Isith recoiled against the sudden feeling of cold air against her skin and curled into him. Her breathless gasp was silenced when Farkas pressed her to him. His arms went around her, one under her arms and another hooking just beneath her bottom. He lifted her up, holding her in much the same position as a man carrying his bride of the threshold. 

Isith had just adjusted to the shock of being lifted into the air when she felt him go down. He knelt slowly to his knees and laid her back once more, freeing one hand so that he could snatch a bundle of clothing over to place under her head. 

When this was done and the makeshift pillow in place, his movements slowed, each one surprisingly determined and accurate for a man his size. He did not make his way for her mouth this time and, instead, his lips began to trail down the curve of her neck. Isith flushed when they grazed her clavicle and she arched beneath him slightly. Farkas, pleased with the reaction, hummed against her skin, tickling it. 

Another, louder, sound escaped her lips when she felt his rough fingers roll over a rosy bud. “Farkas…” 

Before her whisper of his name could grow to louder cries, Farkas moved steadily downward. Beneath him, his woman gasped when she realized his path and her hips shifted anxiously in response. He slid down the length of her body, the hair of his chest scratching against her in a way that was not uncomfortable. Just as he reached the divide of her legs, his searching mouth went to the right and traveled instead along her thigh. 

Isith squealed in response at the ticklish feeling, her hand flying to cover her mouth, and Farkas glanced up at her. She felt the tweak of his lips against her skin when he smiled at what he saw. He tended to the flesh of her other thigh in the same fashion and her girlish giggles soon changed to whispered pleas. 

Farkas’ own breath hitched in his throat as he obliged her. His head dipped between her legs to lap at the special button there and it was where he remained until he felt her fingers tangle in his hair. She begged him to come up and he did so. Isith brought him to her, allowing her fingers to tease circles along his back and sides as he shifted his weight. 

In the dim light, his eyes met hers and she could not control the way her heart fluttered at the emotion she saw in them. Anticipation, adoration, absolute need - she saw it all. It did not matter that the man in her arms would never profess his love through poems or sing songs to her to hold her interest. He was and would always be just Farkas…and she was _happy_. 

“Farkas,” she whispered, “I don‘t want to wait any longer.” 

He looked down at her, smiling crookedly, and answered her with one short nod. 

“Then we won’t.” 

With that, she felt his hips move over her as his hand glided between their slick bodies to place himself at her entrance. He held her eyes as he began to breach her folds slowly. 

Both lovers embraced the moment; nearly dizzy in the knowledge that it was both the first time they had come to together and that it marked the beginning of many couplings to come. 

Isith wriggled under him, stretched beyond her limits. Farkas was not oblivious to her discomfort and he held still for a long moment before sheathing himself completely within her. Isith cried out, her head tilting back to meet the makeshift pillow beneath her. Now adjusted, she beckoned Farkas to continue, gyrating her hips until he responded and cooing at the delightful friction it created. He moved slowly at first until his thrusts finally began to build in pace. 

He was loud in his pleasure as Isith worked her fingers against his shoulders, kneading the muscle there with urgency. Farkas bowed his head into the crook of her neck and groaned as he felt her legs go around his hips, forcing him closer. It was all quickly becoming too much; Isith’s nails dug into the flesh of his shoulder blades as her cries suddenly hushed, barely more than whispers and desperate in their pleading. 

Out loud, they pleaded – to one another, to the gods above, to their own bodies. 

As their elusive goal drew closer, Farkas grunted loudly and wrenched one arm above Isith’s head to brace him his weight as his thrusting turned manic. Another went down to her hook underneath one of her knees and he hitched it up to allow himself better access. A few more frantic thrusts and Isith was undone. Her cries reached a crescendo and she clung to him as the word around her shattered into a thousand pieces. Farkas was not far behind as the feverish clinching of her walls gripped him. 

“Gods, Isith-” His groaning rose to a bellow as he spasmed against her. When the intensity had passed and they were left to coast along in the gentle aftermath, Farkas did his best to slide off of Isith. 

Still quivering, she rolled into him, pressing her cheek to the red-hot skin of his chest. She smiled when his arms went around her, grinning like a madwoman despite her exhaustion. She felt tight and secure and needed beyond a doubt. No force in the world could tear her from his side at that moment. 

Several minutes passed and the air began to grow chilly once more. Farkas rolled onto his side, carefully detangling his legs from Isith’s so that he did not crush her. He reached out to stroke his fingers along the curve of her cheek. Her eyes were as clear as he had seen them in a long time and the green orbs flicked to meet his. Her mouth twisted up in a smile, quirking the full lips in a way that was much too appealing to resist. 

Though she could not speak the words, as his mouth brushed hers, Isith knew beyond a doubt that she truly loved him. Mind, body, and soul she would have him and in that moment she realized that she would do whatever it took to see that they both made it out the current situation alive. 

_I swear it._

“What are you thinking?” Farkas’ voice caught her by surprise and she jerked under his touch. 

She settled and offered him a smile. “About how I never want to do that with anyone else ever.” It was the truth. 

Farkas looked quite pleased with himself, almost boyishly so, and he bent his head to brush his lips against the top of her hair. 

“You sure?” 

Isith was dramatic in her contemplation. She brought a finger to her lips as she thought, rolling her head this way and that. 

“Yes, yes…I am.” She gave him a definite nod. 

Farkas trailed his fingers casually through her hair. The look on his face was the same one he always got when he was thinking about something. 

Isith studied his face for moment, committing every line and scar to memory. “And you, Farkas? Are you sure?” Undoubtedly, the answer was yes. _Men don’t look at women like that unless it’s a ‘yes’._

“Me?” Farkas gave her small smile. “I’ve always been sure, Isith.” 

Isith smirked, cocking one eyebrow. “Have you now?” 

“Yep.” 

Satisfied, Isith sat up and stretched. She was almost tempted to lay back down again as soon as she heard Farkas whine and saw his face crumple in displeasure. 

Unable to deny him completely, Isith winked at him and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll be sleeping in my room tonight, big guy. However, it’s cold out here.” 

Farkas’ eyes glanced to her chest and he grinned. “I can tell.” He grunted when Isith’s hand popped smartly against his stomach. 

They got dressed somewhat sloppily with Isith wedging her boots under her arms as she tiptoed toward the exit. She stopped, spinning around, when she felt Farkas’ hand on her arm. 

_I knew there was something else he had to say._ Isith waited patiently for him to speak. 

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet as he searched for the best way to phrase what he had to ask. His voice was soft, that of a concerned lover. 

“When this is all over, what…what do you think you’ll do?” 

Isith’s brows knitted together when she heard his question. She had not given it much thought. Not to mention how the night’s developments had changed things. She searched for an answer and could not find one. 

“I don’t know, Farkas. What would _you_ have me do?” 

The warrior’s eyes widened before narrowing once more in contemplation. “I…would have you remain at my side. Or better yet, me at yours, no matter where you’re going.” 

“That’s a given, I think.” Isith stood on her toes and pressed a swift kiss to his cheek. She lowered her voice and whispered, “Do you know what I’ve always wanted?” 

Farkas ran his thumb along her ear. He was happy to humor her. “What?” 

“A farm.” She replied flatly. “Maybe outside of Riften. The land is pretty there.” 

Isith felt her face grow warm as she blushed upon seeing Farkas’ reaction to her words. His corners of his mouth jerked up, tilting just slightly, and his eyes twinkled as if she had just kissed him. 

“You? A farm?” He murmured to himself as he tried to picture it. Isith tried not giggle at seeing the way his head tilted this way and that as his imagination got the better of him. 

She leaned back, crossing her arms, and grinned playfully. “Can’t see me milking cows, can you? Maybe tending a vegetable garden?” 

Farkas finally gave up and shook his head. “No.” He ran his hand along one of her arms and added, “But I’d like to.” 

She was about to turn away and continue on outside when she heard him ask, “What of the Companions?” 

Her face pinched slightly as she noticed his tone. To Isith, it sounded more like an afterthought than a true concern. Jorrvaskr was Farkas’ life and she would not tear him away from it lightly, no matter how much he claimed not to mind. 

“Oh, I think we could stay for a while. At least until you decide it’s time to leave. We’ll let Vilkas fill my shoes.” A moony smile played on her lips at the thought. “Heh, not that they’re very big shoes to fill.” 

Farkas grinned back at her and shrugged. “You’re the brains in the relationship. I’ll trust you.” 

His comment caused him to receive a displeased finger waggling about in his face. Isith’s face was comically stern as she made her feelings on the matter clear. 

“Oh, no, big guy. We do this together.” 

Farkas shot her lopsided grin. “Together?” he asked. 

Isith nodded her head and took his hands in hers. “Always,” she whispered. 


	27. Chapter 27

The next several days found Isith either voraciously making love or pacing the halls in a nervous fit. In truth, the pacing frequently led to the love making and, after a while, her nerves seemed better for it. She had not been long out of Farkas’ arms and was on her way to settle a scuffle that had broken out amongst the thieves and warriors when a pair of armor clad arms gripped her shoulders and swept her unceremoniously into a nearby room. The door was closed and locked behind her before Isith even had the chance to protest. 

She whirled about, ready to waylay whoever had accosted her. When her eyes finally caught up with her shaking fist she realized it was Vilkas who was standing before her, solemn-eyed with his arms crossed over his chest. What was left of Isith’s earlier euphoria soon dissipated, sucked out of the room in a single breath to be replaced with an uncomfortable combination of embarrassment and uncertainty. 

_Here it is, the moment I’ve been dreading_ . Isith’s breath rattled in her chest as she met those broken eyes with her own. _Damn, I knew this was coming. What do I say? Oh yes, how about, “Sorry, Vilkas, but I’m a horrible person who lied to you.”_

Instead,Isith found herself at an uncharacteristic loss of words. 

She shifted nervously from foot to foot and waited for Vilkas to speak first. It seemed, at least for the moment, that he had no intentions of doing so. He remained by the door, his face stony save for the movement of his eyes as they flicked from Isith and down to his own boots. It struck her then that they were unreadable, bordering on hollow. 

Just as Isith opened her mouth, Vilkas started across the room. He brushed coolly past her and dropped down heavily in a nearby chair. 

Had an ice wraith hit her square in the chest, the feeling could not have been chillier. 

She wavered between the man and the door and finally, against her instincts, decided to face the dreary music. She took a step forward and for the first time words came to her. 

“Vilkas-“ 

“Give me a moment. I seem to have lost my words.” 

“I –“ 

“ _Isith_.” 

With a grumble, Isith clamped down on her lower lip and waited. Just as surely as Vilkas’ mind was turning, Isith’s was doing somersaults between her ears. _I will not apologize for sleeping with the man I love. I won’t!_ She ran a hand through her bed-mussed hair and found herself suddenly thankful that Vilkas had hushed her moments earlier. 

She had been ready to bark at him for dragging her into a dark room – _alone_ – with Farkas sleeping only a few doors down. It occurred to her rather shamefully that she had no legitimate right to be angry with him. 

_You reap what you sow._ Her brow furrowed at the thought. __

Her cheeks flushed and she looked away as she remembered back to the night she and Vilkas had stood waist deep in icy water with Vilkas confessing his love only to have Isith lie her heart out in response. Again, her fingers danced nervously through her hair. She had lied to him and given him hope where there was none. She continued to wait for him, her face unsmiling, and she suffered the fleeting realization that she was now paying the price for her lies. 

A loud sigh from Vilkas drew Isith’s eyes back to him once more. He stretched back in the chair and rubbed his hands across his face, the rough metal edges of his gauntlets leaving trails of red as they scraped the skin. He did not seem to notice. 

Isith’s voice was quiet, timid in her shame, as she asked, “Have you found your words now?” 

And like that, Vilkas was on his feet. He crossed the distance between them before Isith could recover and she could only stifle a whimper as he reached for her and, with one swift movement, tucked her into his chest. She went as rigid as a glacier under his touch, not so much as daring to move her face from the crook of his shoulder. 

She felt the heat as Vilkas sighed into her hair, ruffling the blonde tangles with his breath. 

“I promised you that we would not speak of this, didn’t I?” His words were muffled as his lips pressed against the top of her head. 

All Isith could do in response was nod. 

Vilkas released her as suddenly as he had grabbed her and turned away. Isith felt a shift in the air as his mood changed and his temper flared in his eyes. She could almost feel the fire as it lit inside him. He started pace a ring around her, his movement unnerving in his resemblance to a wolf circling its prey. 

Isith gave up trying to follow him with her eyes and instead directed her words to the floor. 

“You have been avoiding me these past few days.” 

“I have,” he replied bluntly. He came to a stop in front of her and reached out with his fingers to bump her chin up. “I would have continued to do so had my brother not cornered me yesterday. Do you know what he spoke of?” 

The question was acrid, the causticness of his words cutting through her deep enough to sting her gut. She had to gather herself before she spoke again. “What?” _I honestly do not know._

Vilkas mouthed the answer to himself before he said aloud. If the question had been bitter, the answer was ten times so. 

“Marriage.” 

Isith felt dizzy all of a sudden. She swooned backward and barely caught herself before losing her balance all together. 

“W-what?” 

_Marriage? M-a-r-r-i-a-g-e._ Isith felt that she should balk at the idea. Or throw her head back in laughter. Strangely, she did neither. Whether it was the idea itself or the look of sadness in Vilkas eyes at that moment that stopped her, she did not know. Perhaps it was both. 

Vilkas’ hard eyes softened and he let his fingers wander over Isith’s cheek. “Indeed,” he replied quietly. His voice was gentle, so much like that night at the stream. 

_“If not my brother…if I had been better…would you have chosen me?”_ She could hear the words as clearly as when he had said them. 

Vilkas’ thumb came to rest at the corner of Isith’s mouth and she felt his body tense as she suspected he was fighting the urge to kiss her. She was grateful for his restraint and, in an effort to assist him, she stepped away, putting several feet in between them. 

Isith winced as Vilkas reacted. _Bad move._

That same fire flickered in the shadows of his eyes once more and he let his arm drop back to his side. 

“He has claimed you, then?” 

“Claimed me- _oh_.” Isith, upon realizing to what exactly he was referring, nodded her head firmly. 

His face twisted suddenly and he whipped around, speaking before she had a chance to reply. 

“Bah! Do not answer. I know he has -“ Vilkas turned to face her once more, his eyes flashing accusingly. “By Talos, all of Jorrvaskr knows he has!” 

Isith recoiled at his outburst, her eyes narrowing on him. _Just like old times._ She opened her mouth to speak but found her own words drowned out as Vilkas continued. 

“Did you know, girl, that whenever one of you is coming down the hall, I cannot seem to tell which it is – you smell so strongly of one of another!” 

Isith gaped at him. It had been a long time since he had spoken so roughly to her and she found that she did _not_ appreciate it. 

Her eyes narrowed on him, the green orbs nearly black with anger. She snapped, “How dare you!” 

Anger gripped her, coiling through her stomach like putrid smoke, and she turned about to head for the door. All earlier thoughts of apologizing left her mind as her temper threatened to match Vilkas’. She had to get away before she snapped something unforgivable. Or knocked his teeth out. One or the other. 

Her hand was on the door when she heard his voice again. He called her name and this time it was softer, much more so than the angry words he had shouted seconds before. For a moment she faltered, fighting the urge to glance behind her. She took a breath. So many emotions had been thrown at her since being dragged into this room and she doubted she could handle any more. 

The moments she spent wavering at the door gave Vilkas enough time to approach her. Isith felt his heat at her back as he came to stand behind her, his hand reaching out to cover the one she had resting against the door. 

“Isith,” Vilkas gently threaded his fingers through hers and brought her hand away from its resting place, coaxing her around as he did so. She allowed herself to be turned, against her better judgment. Vilkas’ eyes were tender as he looked down at her. A shock of dark hair tumbled from behind his ear and fell in front of his gaze, obscuring it partially from her view. 

“I am sor-“ 

“No.” Isith’s voice was firm, her refusal sharper than she meant for it to sound. She released a deep breath and spoke again. “Do not apologize, wolf.” 

If there was ever a time to let her temper go, to let bygones be bygones, it was now. _He is not the one who should be apologizing._ Isith gathered herself while Vilkas stared down at her, uncertain of what was coming. Would she shout at him? Curse his name? Isith couldn’t blame the man for being unsure. 

Instead, she lifted his hand, the one that still gripped her own, and placed it over her heart. 

“Vilkas, I should be apologizing to you, I’m afraid. That night in the woods, I –“ She instinctively lowered her voice in case the walls decided to sprout ears, “I was cruel beyond words. I should not have told you such things.” 

The warrior frowned, the corners of his mouth tilting downwards as he listened. He shook his head as he listened to what she said. It appeared he disagreed. 

“No!” He hissed at her, “Isith, listen to me, what happened that night is something that I will carry with me forever. I should have let it go as I promised I would, but I could not, not without telling you that-“ 

“Vilkas…” 

“Let me finish, girl. I know that my brother adores you and you, it is clear that you feel the same for him as well. I see it in your eyes when you look at him.” Her green eyes grew wide and Isith bit back a strangled noise that Vilkas hushed immediately, his words continuing to spill. “No, don’t deny it. I only wish that I could go back and claim you as my own so that you might look at me like that. I should have told you during those few days in Ivarstead. I…it matters not. Not anymore.” 

With that Vilkas looked away and closed his eyes. Isith’s own eyes began to sting as she felt tears welling up. Her throat burned with the urge to speak, to stop him before he could say anymore but she found that she could no longer open her mouth. If she did, she was not certain anything other than a tearful wail would come out. 

_This…this is not what was supposed to happen. It was not supposed to be this hard._

With that thought, a single tear spilled from the corner of one eye and Vilkas’ hand was there to wipe it away. His fingers brushed the salty liquid from her cheek and then came to rest under her jaw so that she could not turn her face away. He understood how she played this game. 

“You are his, I understand that now. But just know, that I would have been honored to call you mine. I’ll never have you at my side as a wife but I will fight and die at yours as a friend, if need be. I love you, Isith, and I’ll be here to protect you until the end.” 

He leaned down for what Isith suspected would be the last time and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was brief, over before she realized. He would have been out the door at that moment if not for her vice-like grip on his wrist. 

_To Oblivion with it all!_ Isith tugged him back, ignoring the look of surprise that flashed over his face, and raised herself up high enough to kiss him proper. A tiny gasp escaped Vilkas’ lips as he felt hers press into his own before he settled into it, kissing her back frantically as if he were trying to memorize every feeling of her mouth against his. 

After a moment, Isith broke away, releasing him from her grasp. Vilkas stared at her as she danced away, watching her like a man entranced by the last firefly before dawn. 

Isith’s voice was gentle as she said, “You’re a good man, wolf.” She winked at him sportively, with only the nearly invisible smile on her lips revealing her true appreciation. “Now go on, that’s the last of them.” 

Vilkas blinked once. Twice. And then he smiled. He turned to go, slipping out of the room without another word. 

When he was gone, Isith lingered by the door a while longer. She was glad to have that particular matter settled once and for all. Something deep down inside told her that she and Vilkas would not speak of such things again. The air was cleared, though not in the way she initially planned. A peculiar thought struck her suddenly. 

_I do love him, after all. Not like Farkas. Ha!_ She chuckled to herself. _No, not like that. But as a friend and brother…I couldn’t ask for better. And if he decides to hate me again at some point in the future, well, I’ll just name one of my children after him. That should win him over._

A peel of laughter erupted from her lips and she had to brace herself against the door frame. When the humor had subsided and she finally collected herself once more, she left the little room behind her and wandered out into the hall. 

There were important things to do, after all. 


	28. Chapter 28

The rest of the day passed rather uneventfully. However, to describe it as dull would be inaccurate as everyone in and around Jorrvaskr seemed to be on edge. Both Vilkas’ and Isith’s moods soured not long after they left each other’s company. 

When Farkas finally emerged from his slumber, even he seemed to notice the somber air that pervaded the entire hall. When he found Isith, he wordlessly latched onto her, save for a quick peck on the top of her head, and remained at her side for the rest of the day. 

As the afternoon hours ticked by into evening, Isith could not restrain her sneaking suspicion that Farkas was not lingering so close purely out of the burning desire to be side by side with his lover. As unreadable as the large Nord had proven to be in the past, he made very little attempt to disguise his nervousness. Each time someone would slip through the doors of Jorrvaskr, his hand would creep toward the sword at his back, only to be drawn away once more when there proved to be no immediate danger. 

Isith said nothing to him. It was both troublesome and touching to see Farkas so on edge for her sake. 

At one point, not long before supper, a sudden outcry from one end of the main room caused both Isith and Farkas to jerk in their seats, green and silver eyes simultaneously widening in alarm. 

Athis, who had been quietly sharpening his sword at one of the smaller dining tables, had clambered to his feet suddenly and the movement had sent his chair tumbling. The startled voice had been that of the Wood Elf thief, Niruin, who was currently finding himself in the uncomfortable position of having a sharpened sword pointed at his belly and a dark hand wrapped around his throat. 

Isith was on her feet a moment later with Farkas close behind. She was striding across the room when she heard Athis shout, “Say it again, you poncy tree hugger!” 

_Damnable temper tantrums!_ Isith’s voice was sharp as she called out to the Dark Elf, “Athis!” 

The elf’s red eyes flicked over to his Harbinger and he immediately lowered his sword. His grip, however, did not loosen. 

Isith came to stop just a foot from the pair of elves. 

“Let Niruin go, Athis.” As a sign of good faith, she placed a gentle but firm hand on the Dunmer’s shoulder. 

She was not oblivious to the way in which Athis’ eyes flitted to Farkas for a brief second. The male Nord made no move to subvert Isith’s order and upon seeing this, Athis released the other elf with a growl. Niruin stumbled backward, his hands going to his throat immediately in order to massage the tender skin. 

He coughed a bit before meeting the master thief’s eyes. “I’m fine, guildmaster. There was a misunderstanding.” 

Certain that no real damage had been done, Isith nodded and dismissed the elf. “Go find Evrim,” she said, “See if he needs any help.” 

With a final glare at the other elf, Niruin turned sharply on his heels and left the room. When he was gone, Isith focused her attention back to the Dark Elf. 

Athis started, “Apologies, Harbinger. A… misunderstanding, you see.” 

Isith waved him off. “We’re all wound a little tight at the moment, Athis. Just try not to bruise the thieves next time, please.” 

If the Dark Elf was at all surprised by her dismissal of the incident, he did not show it. He simply nodded his head and replied, “Understood, Harbinger.” 

When he, too, was gone, Isith warily turned back to Farkas. She shook her head but said nothing, only meeting his eyes with her own. The worry in hers was met by the understanding and apology in Farkas’. 

The big Nord shifted uncomfortably in the silence. Finally he spoke, likely meant to be in what he thought was a whisper but was hardly any less than a low rumble. 

“They trust you more than they let on.” 

Isith eyed him curiously. “You don’t have to say things for my benefit, Farkas.” 

Some strange sound between a huff and a sigh erupted from Farkas’ lips when he heard her words and he folded his large arms over his chest stubbornly. “I mean it. When it comes down to it, they’ll all be behind you.” 

Unable to be serious for too long, Isith didn’t miss a beat. _Hehe…now there’s a chipper thought._

“Behind me, dear? All of them?” She couldn’t restrain herself. “Are you sure you won’t mind?” 

At that, her lover started and dropped his arms to his sides, blushing furiously. Every last bit of seriousness from the earlier moments dissipated as Isith tossed him playful wink. Farkas relaxed a bit and even managed to crack a smile, shaking his head as the grin broke over his lips. 

With a chuckle, he told her, “I should have gotten myself a dull woman. I wouldn’t have to think so much.” 

Upon hearing his words, Isith’s bottom lip poked out to its fullest potential as she began to pout for all she worth. _Another woman, ay? Right._

“Is that so?” As a child, she had mastered the art of whining and, as such, the resulting pitch of her voice was pretty damn authentic. At least she thought so. 

When she saw Farkas begin to reach for her, she danced out of his reach, still frowning. However, all the desire in the word to hold that tiny faux pout in place couldn’t save her as Farkas lunged for her just as she came to rest on her feet. He swept her up and around, placing her so that her bottom was planted firmly on the table beside them. 

He stepped into her, wedging himself in the space between her knees as he took her face between his hands. The calluses on his palms and finger tips brushed softly over her cheeks and she involuntarily nuzzled into their warmth. 

From her position on the table she was forced to tilt her head back in order to look up at Farkas, who was grinning blissfully down at her. 

_Mmm, those eyes! I wonder if he’s at all interested in voyeurism._ Shamelessly, Isith glanced around the room to see who might be around to watch should she decide to have a go at dear Farkas right then. The main room appeared to be empty at the moment, shooting down all thoughts of showing off her lover’s finesse and skill. Unphased and undaunted, Isith returned her gaze to meet Farkas’. 

As she stared up at him, something she did not recognize flashed through his eyes. Uncertainty? Nervousness? _No…_ Isith decided _…that’s sheer terror._ Suddenly alarmed, she placed one hand on Farkas’ cheek, stroking the stubble reassuringly. 

“Farkas, are you-“ 

He cut her off, his words tumbling out in a flurried jumble of syllables. “Will you marry me?” 

As if she were scalded, Isith jerked away, her hands splaying back across the table, blindly searching of their own accord for something to hold. 

“ _What?!”_ She gaped at him. “Farkas!” 

Sure, earlier that day Vilkas had mentioned that his sweet brother was pondering the idea. But she never expected him to ask her now…in the very same day. Not to mention with imminent death looming overhead. As a result, all Isith could do was sit and balk. 

Never, _never_ had she – Isith Septim-Briarblood, lackluster leader of various guilds and factions, occasional murderer and dragon slayer, and all around bad apple - dreamed in a million eras that she would have the opportunity to _settle down_. 

She had fought hordes of enemies too numerous and terrible to count. And right now, it was all she could do to keep breathing. 

All the moisture in her throat seemed to have disappeared during her bout of shock and when she tried to speak her voice was unattractively rough. “Marry you, Farkas?” she asked. _Is he certain?_

Farkas, who seemed immediately relieved to get some kind of response, released her with one hand that he used to bring up to the base of his neck and rub nervously. 

“Er, I hope so…” As he spoke, he gave the tell-tale, half-hearted shrug of a man who was wishing desperately for the best but bracing himself for the worst. 

Isith, wild-eyed and positive she was out of her mind, asked, “Farkas…do, do _you_ want to marry me?” 

“Yes.” 

_Oh, naturally…_

“Really? _Why_?” Her hand clamped down hard over her mouth and she backtracked as best as she could. “What I mean is, I’m not exactly the most-“ 

The poor man was looking like he was nearly in as bad of shape as she was. Panicked, he finally said, “I can’t take this, little one. Yes or no?” 

“Farkas, wait –“ 

“No?” 

Again, Isith’s hands didn’t quite make it to her mouth in time to silence her. 

“Yes!” she nearly screamed. 

For a moment, Farkas just stood there staring at her blankly as if he wasn’t completely ready to trust his own ears. Only when Isith began to nod her head frantically did her answer appear to finally sink in. 

Without warning, she was pulled from the table and into Farkas’ arms. She managed to wiggle her head up from the crook of his shoulder in time to register her body being lifted off the ground and swung around in midair as Farkas spun her around. His laughter was belly-deep and contagious and she soon found herself recovering from the sudden shock of engagement to join him in his celebratory joy. 

As she heard Farkas’ happiness reverberating off the walls and felt the rolling vibration of sound from his chest, Isith smiled. She really _smiled_ , with her head thrown back as peels of overjoyed merriment shook through her in waves. 

The knowledge that both of them would have to survive whatever was coming before settling into wedded bliss was pushed to the back of her mind as she just took the time to enjoy the life-changing moment. Thoughts of the Night Mother and the Dark Brotherhood were not to be tolerated at a moment like this. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of joy that couldn’t ever last quite long enough to really express what Isith was feeling, she felt herself being lowered back to the ground. Her toes brushed the wooden floor gently as Farkas placed her down, his eyes twinkling and locked on hers as he did so. 

“Isith, I love you.” 

Isith beamed up at him as she heard the words. _Nope, no question about it. I want to hear that for the rest of my life._

Suddenly, a thought occurred to her that stopped her in her tracks. 

A frowned deepened across her face, wrinkling her forehead as her brows pulled forward. 

“Farkas...” 

“Yes, dear?” 

Honey-coating the question wasn’t going to do anyone any good so Isith just bit the arrowhead and asked bluntly, “Farkas, what is your last name?” 

The Nord’s face blanked for a brief moment before he tossed his head back and chuckled heartily. When he glanced back down at Isith, her green eyes were bright and pleading more than a tad pathetically. Amused, he tipped his dark head down to her ear and whispered the answered she so desired. 

Upon hearing his reply, Isith nodded her head satisfactorily. 

_How very Nordic. And manly. And…mine._

“Good enough?” Farkas asked. 

Isith grinned and, with a wink, responded, “Good enough.” 


	29. Chapter 29

A day later, the storm rolled in. The rain started to fall late one evening. Thunder and lightning boomed across the plains and quickly drove the residents of Whiterun into their homes. The Companions were no different, their moods already sour enough, and they retired early from whatever activities they were doing to flee the onslaught of water. Even old Eorlund left his forge and silently claimed a corner inside Jorrvaskr to wait out the downpour. 

Inwardly, Isith cursed the weather’s turn for the worse. A heavy rain would bring with it fog that would provide temporary cover for anyone wishing to cross the otherwise wide-open plains. She thrummed her fingers restlessly against the wooden table as she listened to another booming clap of Skyrim’s thunder, her mood as dark as the forecast. 

Some of her most successful assassinations had been carried out under cover of inclement weather. A single arrow to the heart of the vampire Hern had dropped him like a sack of old potatoes, his partner only a few yards away, completely oblivious due to the heavy _pitter-patter_ of rain against the ground. Roaring wind and snow had muffled her steps as she snuck up behind the weary Argonian, Deekus, and sliced his throat before he had the faintest idea she was approaching. She had infiltrated ruins and towns without ever raising an alarm due to a little nasty weather. 

So, no, Isith did not appreciate the rain that evening. 

_Too easy! Too easy for an entire group – Oblivion! An entire damn battalion – of assassins to slip up on Whiterun’s walls in weather like this._ Her nails met the table with such intensity that the wood was starting to score. 

A firm hand on her shoulder at that moment caused her to whip her head around, a profoundly aggravated look on her face, and she cut her eyes up at the owner of the appendage. Brynjolf was staring down at her, his eyes full of knowing and earnest sympathy. 

His brogue was oddly comforting as he said, “Relax, lass. Niruin and Cynric are still keeping watch –“ 

The two aforementioned thieves chose that precise moment to come bursting into the great hall, cursing imaginatively as they shook the rain from their bodies mid-step. 

A very vexed Isith’s eyebrow cocked up and she glared at the auburn haired Nord. “You were saying?” 

The force of his words retreating back down his throat was almost visible and Brynjolf gracefully cleared his throat and developed a new found interest in a tray of food that had just been brought out, leaving Isith to seethe all by her lonesome. 

“You really should smile a little more, girl, it will relax both their nerves and your own.” Vilkas’ familiar voice was hardly above a whisper as he lowered himself into the chair next to Isith. 

“Why don’t you try smiling sometime and let me know how that works out.” Her reply was sharper than she initially meant for it to be but, by Talos, it made her feel better. 

Vilkas took the acid in her voice with a grain of salt, only shaking his head with an odd half-smile on his face. He was silent until his brother approached, taking a seat at Isith’s left hand. 

“Farkas,” he started, “Please tell your wife-to-be that, despite the good news, she remains a remarkably unpleasant creature.” 

Even Farkas had to smile at his twin’s words. That reaction, however, only lasted for a moment. His eyes and Isith’s both went wide at the same instant upon catching Vilkas’ very pointed use of… _those_ words. 

“How did you know?” Isith hissed under her breath, her green eyes electric as they tried to bore holes through Vilkas’ very soul. 

Farkas seconded his love’s inquiry with a garbled sound of beef haunch going down his throat only half-chewed. 

Vilkas snorted smugly and shrugged. “Werewolf.” 

“One who’s pelt will be decorating my floor if he says another word about it!” Isith snapped vehemently. 

Farkas was nodding frantically in agreement even as he was struggling not to choke, meeting his brother’s eyes with a look that warned him to keep their secret if he did not wish to _crushed_. 

Vilkas grinned and he suddenly looked every bit like the wolf he was. His blue eyes twinkled with amusement too good-natured to be trusted. 

“I make no promises,” was all he said. 

Isith growled unhappily beneath her breath before snatching a roll off of Farkas’ plate and shoving half of it into her mouth. 

“Would you like some butter?” Vilkas nudged a tray of shapeless yellow fluff in Isith’s direction. 

Isith glare narrowed on him once more. “I’ll skin you alive, wolf.” 

A few more moments of lingering eye contact and her emotional flip-flopping finally broke. The threat, empty though it may have been, had relaxed her and she found her spirits lifted. 

“Feel better?” Vilkas asked. 

Isith admitted, “Maybe.” 

“Then will you pass _me_ the butter?” Farkas was eyeing his one remaining roll as if it was missing its heart and soul. 

At that, Isith managed a smile and slid the butter over to the hungry Nord, though not before swiping her remaining chunk of bread through it herself. 

The weather did all of Isith’s raging for her and every few seconds the people in the dining hall found their words drown out by bursts of impossibly loud rumbling. The heavens themselves seemed to have opened its mouth right above the city of Whiterun, their fury focused on the ancient structure of Jorrvaskr. 

Dinner continued on for quite some time, running later and later as the wind outside began to blow harder. It was only when one of the great doors slammed open that anyone batted an eye. The chatter in the room hushed with sound of the wood door cracking back into a nearby timber with a resounding _smack_ so loud it rattled their teeth. 

“Oh!” someone cried, their exclamation followed by nervous laughter, “The wind must have caught the door.” 

So startled were they by the incident, no one noticed as a lone figure tumbled out of the darkness and into the warm light of the room. The figure crumpled to the floor with a wet thud. 

Aela was the first to spot the body. As if to herself, she said, “Is that –“ 

“Cicero!” Isith shot up from her seat, sending her chair toppling over as she propelled herself away and around the table. 

She covered the distance to the door quickly, several Companions at her heels. Sure enough, the wet, pitiful lump of flesh on the floor was the Keeper. Isith slid to her knees beside him and hefted his drenched body halfway into her lap. Cold dampness began to seep through the cloth of her pants as rain dripped from jester’s form. Through the cold and the cloth, an uncomfortable warmth spread just above her knees where she had the man balanced. 

She did not have to left him off to know that it was blood. The strength alone of the metallic scent was enough to alert her to the graveness of the keeper’s wounds. 

_What has happened?_ The question played over and over again in Isith’s mind as she gazed dumbly down at the Imperial. Finally, her senses came to her and she called for something to stop the bleeding. 

Evrim arrived at her side moments later with a handful of shredded linens. The Altmer’s eyes flashed to her’s with uncertainty. 

“Do you want me save him?” 

_‘Do you **want** me to save him?’ Another life in your hands, Isith, make the call._

Isith swallowed hard. Cicero _was_ the last Dark Brotherhood member loyal to her. She needed whatever information he might have. It was a black thought, she realized, to base her choice on what was most useful, not morally right. 

“Yes. Do what you can, Evrim.” With those words, she moved to pass the limp Imperial’s weight over to the Elf. 

The mad man’s eyes snapped open suddenly and he moved with such speed that Isith had no time to react. A bloody, gloved hand snatched her around the collar and she was jerked forward roughly to find herself eye to eye with raw insanity. Cicero heaved a single breath, sticky and sour as it pervaded Isith’s nostrils, prompting her to recoil against him. Wounded though he was, he held her firmly, his eyes locked on hers as solidly as his fingers by her throat. 

Ragged, blood-choked words erupted from his lips, unmistakable to all who heard them. 

“They are coming, Listener. They are coming.” 

……………………………………………… 


	30. Chapter 30

The next morning, Isith awoke with a start. She had dreamed of _him_ again. Sithis himself had wormed his way into her dreams during the night. Unsurprisingly, he had brought with him the same message of her impending doom. But she had resisted. She had screamed and railed and cursed him until he had faded back into the depths of her imagination. 

Her sudden movement seemed to have awoken the sleeping giant beside her. Farkas stirred, opening his eyes groggily as he blinked away deep sleep. As she tried to force the overwhelming sense of foreboding out of her mind, Isith noted for the first time that Farkas didn’t actually snore after all. As it turned out, the man slept as silently as priest in a chapel. There were no deep rumbles in the night to shake her from her dreams. 

Yawning, Farkas untangled his arm from around Isith’s waist and used it instead to prop himself up. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked sleepily. 

Isith sighed and fell back against her pillow. “Just a nightmare, Farkas.” She replied. “They’re not so bad anymore…just unnerving.” 

“Can I help?” 

“Mmm, you can kiss me.” 

Farkas was all too happy to oblige. He reached out to wrap his arms around her warm body and tugged her down gently to rest beneath him. His lips always seemed softest in the mornings and today was no exception as he captured Isith’s much smaller mouth with his. She cooed quietly in his arms, enjoying the feel of his lips against hers and the way the stubble on his chin sandpapered its way back and forth over her skin. 

Her arms snaked around his neck of their own accord, her fingers dancing through his tangled hair. He relaxed under her touch, swaying slightly above her as she continued work a path from his scalp to the back of his neck. As her fingers worked, she felt his lips move from her own down to the flesh of her jaw. Warmth washed over her as the last remnants of nightmarish sleep were chased away by the quickening of his kisses. He nipped at the base of her jaw and her body thrilled beneath him, arching into him like the wood of bow being drawn tight. 

Farkas ran his hands along her curves, pleased to find her soft rather than tense as he had expected. The light shift that she had taken to sleeping in was shimmied off easily enough and soon his hands were back on her, touching and teasing in all the right places. A heady moan escaped her and Farkas growled in response. Unlike her, Farkas preferred to sleep in the buff and when he bucked against her, she gripped him with all she had, her fingers clinging to his shoulders as if her continued existence depended on it. 

“I can chase away those dreams if you’ll let me, Isith.” He whispered as he took in the scent of _her_. 

She nodded fervently, her reply nothing more than a whispered and desperate, “Please.” 

When he guided himself into her, the rest of the world fell away. All she had at that moment was him and that was all that mattered. She pulled him close, demanding wordlessly that he do everything in his power to never let her go. Her usual cries of pleasure were merely whispered words of unadulterated love and supplication. Just before her senses shattered around her, she swore to herself that it would take something far greater than spirits or death to separate them. 

She came apart in his arms, safe and warm, and soon after her he followed, filling her with his own need and murmuring promises that she knew would never be broken. 

……………………………………………… 

A while later, after they had both washed and prepared for the day, they finally emerged from the Harbinger’s quarters and found that they were the last to rise. 

_If anyone else actually bothered to go to sleep at all_ ...Isith herself had only slept once all of Jorrvaskr was put on lockdown. 

None of Jorrvaskr’s inhabitants seemed to be in particularly sparkling moods and eventually the somberness pervaded the lovers’ post-coital bliss. Farkas wordlessly latched onto Isith’s side after breakfast and remained there for the rest of the afternoon. 

Isith excused herself from his company only once so that she could check in on Cicero. Even then, Farkas waited protectively at the end of the hall. As she entered the room, she saw that Evrim had stretched the Imperial out on one of the spare beds. The assassin lay there limply, his breathing remarkably steady for someone who had been in his condition only hours earlier. 

When she spoke to him, _if_ she could really call it speaking, his news was not what she wanted to hear. Through broken speech, fevered and strangled, he told her in his own mad way that Babette and her group of assassins were no more than two days out of Whiterun. He had been spotted and attacked while trying to hurry around them in the night, thus, receiving the wounds that currently plagued him. 

He was a pitiful creature, more so than usual, and Isith was forced to steel her heart against it. She left him after prying from him all the intelligible information she could, though she stopped to ask Evrim to check on him once more before lunch. 

When she returned to Farkas’ side, she relayed the information she had been given and asked him to tell the others. 

Right now, all she needed to do was come up with a plan. 

…………………………………………….. 

The weather that had cleared earlier in the morning was now growing bleaker by the hour, the temperature uncharacteristically cool for late spring. As the wind picked up, the thieves and Companions became more restless, none of them remaining at one activity for very long. Some sparred, others bickered, while some just sat silently as if poised on thin ice. 

_Perhaps they have been in each others’ company too long,_ Isith pondered wearily, _then again, maybe it’s just the thought of knowing that the Brotherhood is indeed on their way. That’s enough to drive anyone to the brink of a nervous breakdown._

She was not oblivious to the fact the she and she alone was the cause of their dark moods. It would have been simple to dismiss the thought as “I am their leader; it is their duty,” yet, she could not quite convince herself that was true. Had their positions been reversed, she doubted seriously that she would have retained the loyalty they all seemed to possess. 

_Gods, this will be over soon. And may we all be alive at the end of it._

The thought was heavy on her mind as she slumped down onto one of the benches out back. The main training area was currently occupied by Thrynn and Torvar. The latter was repeatedly being knocked into the dirt by the quicker, more sober thief. Isith’s eyes flicked to Brynjolf, who stood on the sidelines, overseeing the match. 

The master thief’s eyes met hers and he nodded in acknowledgement. It was his way of saying that he would be over to see her in a moment. 

Beside her, Isith felt Farkas settle on the creaking bench. His presence warmed her immediately and she found that her eyes were no longer on the sparring taking place before her. She watched as her lover tilted his head back to look up into the sky. His eyes squinted into the clouds in an attempt at blacking out what little sun light managed to leak through the overcast heavens. Without taking his gaze from the clouds above, his hand moved to grip Isith’s and gave it a comforting squeeze. His voice was soft and low when he spoke. 

“Looks like it’s going to rain again.” 

Isith snorted. “ _Hmph_. Fitting.” 

The heavens seemed to take offense to her smart-assery and a single loaded rain drop splashed down onto the tip of her nose. The freckled button crinkled in surprise but before she could move to wipe away the wetness, a clothed wrist had already done it for her. Isith looked appreciatively to see who had performed the favor and found that it was Brynjolf. 

“Much obliged.” She mumbled with a nod. 

“Any time, lass.” 

Brynjolf gave her shoulder a tender squeeze before taking a seat at her free side. His posture told her that whatever he wanted to say wasn’t meant for everyone to hear. He was hunched forward, good naturedly nudging Isith’s elbows out of the way to make room for his own. Isith read him well and leaned in closer so that he would not have to speak any louder than was necessary. She tapped Farkas on the thigh to signal him to do the same. 

She immediately regretted it as her beau shifted closer, trapping her uncomfortably between the two bulky bodies. Isith swallowed any complaints and waited for Brynjolf to say his peace. 

“It seems they’re saying a storm’s coming, lass.” 

Isith wriggled awkwardly. “Hmm, Farkas was just saying the same thing.” She mumbled. 

Brynjolf cracked a half-hearted smile and glanced at the woman by his side. 

“Figuratively, lass. Though given the weather, I forgive you for taking it literally.” 

Isith grumbled under her breath before casting a pair of tired eyes at the thief. Her voice low and serious, she asked, “What’s the matter, Bryn? Is it that my time has finally run out?” 

Beside her, Farkas growled, cutting his eyes at her, clearly displeased. Isith moved her hand to his to calm him. 

Brynjolf hardly paused. “As much as I’d like to echo the boy’s sentiment, we need to be realistic. This has dragged on too long. If they’re as close as the mad man claims then it’s going to be soon.” Brynjolf’s eyes met Isith’s and for once her own wariness was matched. 

“Even if it is,” Farkas grumbled, “We’ll be ready. Best to get this over with anyway.” 

They were both right, Isith conceded. Still, something in her gut refused to settle. When she spoke, she wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince herself or the men at her side. 

“You boys forget that the Brotherhood is being led by an undead ten year old. Babette is vicious – she’s survived three hundred years – but she’s no tactician.” 

She looked to Farkas. “That is what you’re for, dear. You and the Companions can plan. As for the plotting? That’s your territory, Bryn.” The thief huffed, clearly uncertain. 

Isith continued, “Any major offensive will involve subterfuge. And you and I…well, Mercer Frey would never have met his end if we couldn’t handle that. Not to mention, according to Cicero, they simply don’t have the numbers to attack Jorrvaskr head on.” 

That seemed to bring Brynjolf a small amount of reassurance. 

“Are you really so certain?” A fourth voice joined the group. The three Nords turned to see Vilkas standing nearby. Aela lingered at his side, her eyes watching Isith cautiously. 

Vilkas’ gaze fell on Isith for a brief moment and she knew at last that what had lain between them was settled. He moved away from the spot he had seemed to materialize from and joined Isith and the others at the table, sitting across from his twin. Aela followed suit and the group was complete. 

Isith shook her head, her mouth beating her mind to the punch per usual. “You should have let me know there was going to be a party,” she scolded, “I would have brought the ale.” 

Her quip went unacknowledged. 

“What if what the assassin is telling us is false? Have you considered that? Or the old hag?” Vilkas asked. “What role will she play?” 

All eyes were on Isith then. Only she could answer. 

“Do you want an honest opinion? Because, truthfully, I do not know. We’ll have to play our cards close to our hearts on that issue.” _How about big, potentially life-ending problem?_ “As for Cicero lying…no, I don’t believe Babette could have reached him. I feel -” 

“Useless as usual.” Aela snapped as her face flushed from the anger she was trying unsuccessfully to swallow. 

Cold green eyes fell on the red-head but the older woman did not flinch. 

Eyes around the table grew wide, some in disbelief, others in anger. The men were quick to stand but none except Farkas made any move step between the two women. A pair of deadly silver eyes locked onto Aela and both Vilkas and Brynjolf braced themselves to intercept whoever moved first. 

Isith looked around her. Even the look she saw in Brynjolf’s eyes frightened her. The normally optimistic thief seemed as if he was made of stone, ready pounce on the other woman if she so much as flinched. 

Something had to be said and quickly. 

Isith did not take her eyes off Aela as she spoke, her cool, unyielding gaze focused on her as she said, “Issues?” 

“You’re damn right I have issues -” 

“That much we already knew, Aela. I meant, what is your problem?” 

Aela snarled, unsurprisingly not one to blush furiously when put back in her place. “We have no plan, Isith. I cannot shake this feeling in my gut that all is not as it seems.” 

“This isn’t the Dark Brotherhood of old, Aela! They have neither the manpower nor the wit to –“ 

“There you go again! You are basing everything – our lives, our home – on the words of fool! Have you really run for so long from something that could be so easily taken care of?” 

Isith felt her skin grow hot under her clothes, heating like iron in a forge. Her eyes flared orange for the briefest of seconds as she struggled to force the beast within her back down. 

Regaining control of herself, she snapped, “Don’t you understand? I had to run when I did! I had the Nightmother crawling around in my skull, whispering in my ear! Nazir questioning my every move!” 

“That is your doing!” 

“I did what I had to do! You didn’t work with them. You don’t know them.” 

Isith rounded the table then and planted herself stalwartly in front of Aela. Her eyes narrowed as she tilted her head up to look the other woman in eyes. 

“Whatever you need to say, Aela, get to it. I’ve got plans to make with or without your help.” 

The red-head snorted once as she rolled her eyes. It appeared she had nothing left to say. The look of warning in Isith’s eyes dared her to make a move against her. After several tense moments, Aela relented. Her chin dropped to her chest and, slowly, she shook her head. 

“Do whatever you feel you need to do. But when your foolishness has you at the end of an assassin’s blade, I’ll be here to lead these people like they deserve. Until then...be my guest, Harbinger. Make your plans. I will follow.” 

It seemed like ages until Isith finally took her eyes off of her challenger. She would have to deal with Aela another day. For now, it seemed they had reached a murky agreement. 

_Thankfully._

With a deep sigh, Isith returned to her place at the table before motioning for the others to sit down. 

“Now,” she said as everyone silently reclaimed their seats, “Where were we?” 


	31. Chapter 31

Sleep came to no one that night. Companions and thieves alike walked the halls of Jorrvaskr and the streets of Whiterun until dawn broke over the landscape, chasing away the cover of darkness for another few hours. When breakfast came, few ate from the earnest desire for food. Most forced down a meager meal to stomach their nerves and help keep up their strength. 

Farkas practically spoon-fed his lover and even then Isith hardly ate enough to fill herself. The words that had been exchanged the day before were weighing heavily on her mind. Aela’s outburst had left her unsettled, a feeling that was growing as ever second ticked past. Each second meant the Dark Brotherhood was another step closer to Whiterun. A step closer to her. 

According to the inconveniently unconscious Cicero, Babette had only mustered seven green assassins at most. If all went according to her almost non-existent plan, there would be little to fear. 

As Isith chewed, a rare optimistic thought struck her. _Hopefully, I’ve worked myself and every other person in Skyrim up for naught._

Babette herself may prove the greatest challenge. Isith even found herself compensating for that particular issue. _If necessary the little brat may find herself in a room full of werewolves._ Transforming in front of a large group of associates would not be ideal for the Circle but in a pinch… 

Finishing her meal, Isith tallied the score in her mind. So far it was seven against thirteen, excluding poor old Vignar and Eorlund, who really had nothing to do with any of it. Those odds certainly didn’t bother her…if they were accurate. 

Breakfast had not been over long when a knock came at the main door. Rune, being the first to hear it, answered it in place of Tilma, who had been sent away several days earlier for her own safety. 

Isith watched as the thief cracked open the door just slightly, a task easier said than done given its enormous weight. She was just able to spy the figure of a young urchin through the gap between Rune’s body and the door. The thief appeared to accept something the child handed to him before the kid rushed away and out of view. Rune shut the door once again and turned back to find his guildmaster staring at him nosily. In his hand he held what looked to be note. He turned it over several times as he made his way over to Isith. 

“Looks like it’s for you, Isith.” 

He offered it to her, remaining in his place as he waited for her to open it. 

Isith eyed him humorously, her lips quirked up in a smirk. “Waiting to catch me in case I faint from whatever bad news this probably contains, Rune?” 

Straight-faced, he answered her, “Yes.” 

His reply caused Isith to cock one eyebrow in genuine amusement before she returned her gaze to the letter in her palm. _Good ol’ Rune. A girl can never have too many over-protective man friends running around._ She ripped open the letter and was instantly struck dumb by its contents. 

_“Dear exalted and soon to be deceased Listener,_

_Please join me for a pre-slaughter meeting near the Whiterun stables at dusk. Feel free to bring your friends as I will certainly have a few of mine._

_Fear not, I only want to have a short chat before I rip your heart from your chest. Oh, and do bring a darling little girl someone to eat, won’t you! It’s been such a long journey!_

_Sincerely,_

_Your favorite evil ten-year old”_

Her heart sped up, taking off faster than it would if Alduin had suddenly crashed-landed through the roof. She shoved the letter at Rune, who accepted it cautiously before he turned it over to read for himself. 

When he had finished, Isith told him, “Find Brynjolf. Tell him to meet me at the Bannered Mare.” 

The thief stared at her, his handsome features clouded with uncertainty. 

“Guildmaster…” 

“Rune, please. Keep this between us. And tell no one but Bryn. Please.” 

Given the earnestness of her request, all Rune could do was nod as he set off to find her second-in-command. 

……………………………………………………. 

Half an hour later, Brynjolf nearly kicked down the door of the Bannered Mare, storming into it while waving the note in his hand around wildly. He spotted Isith at the bar, a tankard of her favorite spiced cider nuzzled between her palms. He came tearing over to her before she could so much as wave. 

“What in Oblivion is _this_ , lass?” 

“A letter.” 

“None of your wise-cracks now, Isith.” He snapped, “So, they’re writing you letters now, are they? Letters that practically scream ‘yes, come waltzing into our obviously devious trap, you silly, silly woman?’ By Nocturnal, why haven’t you gone up in arms, lass?” 

“Bryn –“ 

“ _No_. Don’t you ‘Bryn’ me into listening to whatever it is you’re thinking. You are _not_ going to this meeting.” 

“Bryn.” 

“I said ‘no,’ lass. Now come along,” a firm hand wrapped around her arm and began to tug. “I’m getting you back to Jorrvaskr.” 

“But Bryn, please.” 

Isith dug her heels into the floor and pulled away. She settled back onto her chair and waved Hulda, the owner, over to order a drink for the thief. Brynjolf glared at her, undaunted. 

“See, I’ve got you some mead. Now you have to stay.” 

Isith grinned at him playfully and for a moment he was reminded of the woman she used to be. He wished desperately to have her back again. That girl, fresh out of her teens, hungry to learn and eager to laugh, following hot at his heels as they robbed their way through half of Riften. Brynjolf sat with sigh. Where had that girl gone? 

A few minutes later he had the mead she’d ordered him resting temptingly in his hands and he knew that she had once again won. Of course, he would listen to whatever it was she happened to be cooking up. 

With that grin still plastered on her lips, Isith started, “Hypothetically, what would you do if I asked you to accompany me to meet Babette?” 

Brynjolf took a long gulp of mead before answering her. “I’d go with you, naturally.” 

“Good –“ 

“With all of Jorrvaskr and the Thieves Guild behind me.” 

Isith’s words faltered and her grin quickly shifted into a frown. “No,” she said, “I’m not planning on telling them.” 

“ _What_?” The question was followed by a bout of coughing as the liquid Brynjolf was swallowing went down the wrong way in his surprise. 

Isith patted him on the back tenderly as she replied, “Vilkas would try to stop me. Farkas would probably lock me away. If I don’t go, Bryn, Babette may just attack. They could sneak into Whiterun if they tried hard enough. Our odds aren’t quite good enough to let them get in a sneak attack.” 

“Lass, you’ve lost your mind. This. Is. A. Trap.” He tapped each word out on the bar to emphasize his point. Anything to get through to her. 

“Maybe.” 

“No, no ‘maybe’! Definitely!” 

“Look how many traps I survived with Mercer. I’m good at it. It’s what I do. And in case you’re right, you’ll be there.” 

Brynjolf sat back. He studied her as best he could, watching the steady gaze of her eyes as she looked at him, waiting for his response. There was hope in their depths that he could just barely make out. Looking at her, there was no hint of the naivety that had been in her request. He sighed, his breath making ripples in the warm golden liquid in his mug. 

“I…are you sure, lass? I’m not certain I could live with it, if any of us could, if you’re wrong.” 

A single affirmative nod came at the tail end of his words, so quick he wasn’t even sure if she had even heard him. 

“It’s the best thing I could do, Bryn. If my gut told me this was trap then I wouldn’t have asked you come.” 

And that was that. Brynjolf reluctantly agreed to accompany her, against his better judgment. Though he was not a religious man, he sent up prayers to whichever gods happened to be listening. 

A few more hours rolled past and they spent it the Bannered Mare, laughing as best they could and hiding in corners whenever someone from Jorrvaskr came looking. 

……………………………………………………………. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Are _you_ ready, lass?” 

“I’m the Dragonborn. Ready is what I do best.” Isith cocked a hack-eyed grin as she pressed her shoulder against the heavy city doors and pushed. 

Before she could get them open so much as an inch, she felt Brynjolf’s hand on her shoulder pulling her back. 

“Wait,” he said. 

Isith chewed at her lower lip nervously, wandering if she would have to knock him out should he change his mind. 

“Lass, in case the meet goes south –” 

“It won’t.” 

Brynjolf shook his head and clamped his hand over her mouth. “In case it does,” he continued, looking sternly down at her, his hand still in place, “I won’t stop fighting until every last one of the buggers lies dead.” 

Isith smiled under the weight of his palm, her eyes twinkling in true appreciation. Brynjolf drew his hand away, not entirely comfortable with the feeling of her lips brushing his skin. 

“I know, Bryn. But, hopefully, this will just be a friendly chat.” 

Brynjolf nodded and reached to heave open the door for her. They started down the path to the stables, both of them busy counting every guard they passed and silently thanking them for their presence. 

As the stables came in to view after they round the last corner, Brynjolf leaned down and whispered into Isith’s ear, “You know, lass, it’s not too late to leave Skyrim and run off to make some cradle-sized versions of you and me.” 

Isith elbowed him and did her very best to keep her features neutral as they reached the fence. So far, there were no assassins to be seen, a fact which made Isith acutely nervous. She stopped in her tracks and searched the dusky surroundings for anything out of the ordinary. 

Nothing. Not so much as leaf fluttered. 

Isith swallowed hard. _This is beginning to feel like a very, very bad idea._

Suddenly, movement to her right, near the khajiit camp, caught her eye. A lone child stood atop the nearest grassy knoll, her delicate hands laced politely at her back as she swayed against the chilly wind. Amidst the messy, windswept auburn hair that was brushing over the child’s face, unnaturally red eyes narrowed across the short distance to burn into Isith. It was Babette. And, clearly, she had not eaten. 

Isith took a step forward to place herself protectively in front of Brynjolf. _Just in case a stray arrow or two comes flying this way,_ she told herself. 

Suddenly, a wide smile broke over the vampire’s lips and she looked truly pleased. She came skipping across the distance. No sooner than she had taken her first step did three assassins materialize seemingly out of nowhere. Their ability to hide so effectively should have been Isith’s first clue. One brawny redguard stepped from the shadows of the stables. He looked much too large to be able to hide as well as he apparently could. The other two assassins flanking Babette were khajiit, their markings and coloring remarkably similar. Much the same as Vilkas and Farkas, it occurred to Isith that they were twins. She had never seen two khajiit from the same litter. Two pairs of blue, feline eyes honed in Isith and she felt that she was as a mouse being watched by a hungry house cat. 

Babette came to a halt just a few feet in front the two Nords. The rest of the assassins stopped considerably further back, though still close enough to pose an immediate threat. 

“I see you got my letter.” Babette giggled gleefully. 

“Yes. Charming as it was, how could I resist? Now,” Isith’s expression grew sank into grimness, “What have you called me here for? Because if it’s to kill me, I wish you the best of luck.” 

Babette threw her head back and laughed. “Sweet Listener, this is only a courtesy,” she chirped. She folded her arms over her chest as what was left of her laughter died away. Sighing, she added, “Although, I would like to present you with a very generous offer.” 

Isith leaned back, settling her wait onto one hip and crossing her arms in a way that only a grown woman could. 

“That right?” 

“Mmmhmm!” The vampire child smiled again though this time there was no humor behind the expression. 

From behind her, Isith her Brynjolf mumble something foul under his breath. “No deals, lass. Not with her.” 

Isith shrugged and looked back at Babette. “I’m inclined to agree with my friend here, Babette.” 

Babette’s expression did not change. She continued to stare at the Listener, her eyes and smile reflecting only malice. Isith’s refusal had little effect on her. 

“Then go if you want, Listener.” The vampire watched as Isith cocked an eyebrow at her dismissal, obviously wary to turn her back on the assassins so soon. Babette took a single step closer before she offered the bait. “I only thought to reach out to that heroic streak of yours and present you with a chance to spare your friends.” 

Isith took it. She faltered, if only for a moment. Her eyes widened in surprise and she straightened, letting her arms fall back to her sides. 

“What?” 

“You heard me, Listener.” 

Isith scowled. “I mean, what is the deal? What do you want?” 

“You, Listener. We want you.” 

At that, Brynjolf clapped his hands together loudly before placing them on Isith’s shoulders. “Sorry, child, but the lass isn’t interested. _At all_.” 

Isith shook him off but did not look at him. She never took her eyes off of Babette. 

“What do you mean ‘me’?” That part definitely needed clarification. 

Babette rolled her eyes and placed her hands on her hips in that universal little girl act of frustration. “Did living with the Companions make you stupid or something? I want you and only you to meet me at a location of my choosing during a time of my choosing. Understand now, Listener?” 

_Yes, yes I understand **that**_ . “So…you want me hand myself over and in return you’ll leave my people alone?” 

“I don’t want you to just hand yourself over, you nitwit.” The child in the vampire was showing. “I’m offering you a last stand. Fight us, fair and –well, probably not fair – but too the death and, if you win, then this is over. If we win, well, we’ll do horrible things to your corpse in Sithis’ name. ” 

“Yes, yes, I understand that part. But you swear that you’ll leave my friends alone. No harm will come to them?” 

Behind Isith, Brynjolf was gaping at her, bewildered that she was even considering the vampire’s offer. 

Babette nodded her head. “I swear. We all do.” 

Isith’s upper lip curled. “I don’t believe you.” With that she started to turn away, leaving Brynjolf to sigh in relief. 

The khajiit caravan had taken notice of the exchange and had gathered on the hill, which in turn had drawn the attention of the guards, some of whom were lining up along the walls. To Isith, it seemed a safe bet that they would be returning to Jorrvaskr unharmed. 

She had only managed a few steps before Babette called her back. She turned to see the undead child motioning to closer with a finger. Isith glanced back at their growing audience. 

Babette took notice of her trepidation and, quietly, she said, “Now is not the time, I will not hurt you.” 

Isith took a deep breath and steeled herself. She started toward Babette once more and felt Brynjolf’s arm go around her waist as he tried to haul her back, muttering curses at her as he did so. She pushed him off and continued on her way. When she reached Babette, the girl took her hand and urged her down. Isith obeyed, however reluctantly. 

When Babette’s mouth was level with her ear, she heard the vampire whisper, “Be at the Western Watchtower tomorrow at dusk. I will be waiting. If you are not there, Isith, I swear to you that your people will lie bleeding on the floor come morning.” 

Isith drew back suddenly. Her eyes, cold in their sudden understanding, stared at Babette for a long moment. The Listener gave a small nod, just barely perceptible even to Babette’s honed eyesight. With nothing left to say, Isith turned away one final time and headed back up the hill with Brynjolf at her heels. 


	32. Chapter 32

By the time Isith and Brynjolf had returned to Jorrvaskr, the entire place was nearly up in arms. Farkas was pacing wilding from one end of the room to the other while his twin was on the verge of sawing straight through his weapon as he ran the sharpening stone over the blade. All of the thieves were gathered in a circle, with the exception of Rune, who, probably out of guilt, had disappeared amidst the worry for their “missing” peers. 

Farkas was the first to spot the partners in crime as they slipped through the front the door, none too quietly. His eyes narrowed on Isith with eagle-like precision and in a few long strides he was suddenly standing in front of her. 

He glared at her, his eyes steeled and his lips pressed into a thin line. Isith looked up at him and tried her best to appear apologetic. Too much was weighing on her mind at the moment, however, and her gaze came across as a tad peevish. 

Farkas took it all in, from Isith’s expression and that of the thief beside her, who was looking positively livid. For the moment, he chose to ignore the latter. He could ask about Brynjolf later. Instead, he reached out and brushed his hand against Isith’s badly scarred cheek. 

As his thumb trailed tenderly over her cheekbone, he asked, “Where have you been, Isith?” 

Her green eyes twinkled in the light, though not from any look he’d ever seen, and she sighed into his hand. 

So quietly that he had to strain to hear her, she whispered, “We need to speak, Farkas.” 

Fear gripped him and he cut his eyes, cold and hard, at the thief. Brynjolf shook his head, his red hair greasy from repeatedly running his fingers through it, before he turned and walked away. 

He looked back to Isith, visibly confused. “Alright,” he replied gruffly before taking her by the hand and leading her downstairs. 

When they were alone behind the closed doors of Isith’s quarters, Farkas continued on until he reached the bed, where he perched himself. From the hunch of his shoulders to the anxious look in his eye, he seemed to be waiting for the hammer to fall. 

Isith let out a heavy breath that sounded as if it had been pent up for the entire walk to the room. Maybe it had. The sound caught Farkas off guard and he leaned back, his eyes watching her with thinly veiled suspicion. 

Shakily, she began, “I’ve decided what to do and I need you trust me.” 

“I always trust you, Isith. Since I first met you.” 

“No, Farkas, I mean _really_ trust me. Trust me to make a decision that you might not agree with, a decision that’s going to seem like the most brick-headed thing I could possibly do.” 

Farkas paused at that. He leaned forward to balance his elbows atop his knees and balanced his chin on his hands. “Alright…” 

“You are not going to like it, dear.” 

“What is it?” 

“I’ve got a plan.” 

“A plan?” 

“Yes, a plan.” Isith paused long enough to take a breath. She settled onto the bed next to Farkas and took his hand in hers. 

It took her several seconds longer to collect her thoughts and words in some sort of order that hopefully wouldn’t send Farkas into a furious tizzy. 

“I’ve got a way that I just might be able to keep anyone from getting hurt.” She squeezed his hand in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. “I’m going to fight the Dark Brotherhood. _Alone_.” 

Given his reaction, she was pretty sure that if she had told him she was going to have Brynjolf’s red-headed babies, he probably would have been more excited. Maybe delighted even, seeing as how at the moment he looked as if she had just driven a knife through his heart. 

“Alone? _Alone_!” In the blink of an eye he was on his feet. He rounded on her and hauled her up off the bed, planting her firmly in front of him. He gripped her chin between his calloused fingers and forced her to look at him. 

“No.” he stated roughly. 

“Farkas, if I had done this a long time ago we wouldn’t be having this conversation now -” 

“Because you would dead!” he growled. 

“Maybe, maybe not! Please, let me explain my reasoning!” 

“There is no reasoning, Isith! Your plan is a bad one. A very bad one.” 

Finally, after much struggling, Isith broke free of his grip. She stepped away and held out a hand to stop him from coming toward her. 

“Listen to me, Farkas. Trust, remember?” The fierce look in his eyes told her that she only had about three seconds to explain before he locked her in the bedroom for the next week. “I’m not fool enough to believe that Babette and the others won’t try and attack here even if I hand myself over. But, damn it, Farkas! I’m the Dragonborn! I’m damn good at keeping my head attached to my shoulders and a few assassins won’t change that.” 

She paused for just a moment to read his face. Nothing. 

She continued, “If, if I can take most of them out then maybe no harm will come to those here. There may only be a few them, after all. Nothing I can’t handle –“ 

“No.” 

“Damn you, Farkas! I won’t let them through these doors! I…I met with Babette tonight and –“ 

“You _what_? Isith!” 

“Brynjolf was there! She told me – stop looking at me like that! She offered me a deal. Face the Dark Brotherhood head on and if I win then the threat is gone! There will be no Brotherhood to attack you here! You’ll all be safe.” 

For the first time since he’d known her, Farkas watched as tears began to fill her eyes, shining against them and deepening the green until they reminded him of summer leaves after a heavy rain. 

“Farkas,” she whispered, “ _You_ will be safe.” 

The tears broke over the barrier of her lashes and spilled down her cheeks, running crookedly over the scars and smooth skin indiscriminately. 

“Let me go with you.” There was a note of pleading in his voice that Isith had never heard before. The usual rumbling had turned to gravel. 

She shook her head. “No. That was not part of Babette’s deal. I won’t risk them putting an arrow in anyone who comes with me. I need you here, love, just in case. This could all go up in my face and they may not even show up. They may come straight here. But I have to take this chance.” 

She reached up to brush the back of her hand across her cheeks to wipe away the tears that continued to fall. Farkas reached up and took her wrists in his hands, pulling them down to his sides. 

He looked at her, still in disbelief. 

“How can you do this?” His voice was barely a whisper. 

She realized she could not answer him and snatched her hands away before bolting from the room. 

………………………………………………………………………… 

Vilkas was the first to find her, still in tears, after she announced her plan to Farkas. She had locked herself away in the room they used for bathing. The one tub that contained water had long since gone cold and he found her with her knees drawn up to her chest as she sat submerged in the soapy murk. 

How he got the door open, Isith would never know, but he did and when she looked up he was standing in the doorway. 

He was shaking his head. “Fool,” he said quietly. “All of Jorrvaskr at your disposal and you’ve thrown us away.” 

If Isith was put off by his sudden appearance, she did not show it. She wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them in closer, hugging herself tight in the chilly water. 

“I suppose Farkas has told you of my master plan?” 

“No,” Vilkas replied sadly, “He’s told us of your suicide.” 

“Have a little faith, wolf.” 

“Not when it involves you, Isith.” 

Without warning, he pushed himself away from the door frame and strode across the floor where Isith and the tub sat. She watched him as he advanced, unflinching. He reached down beside the tub and brought up the linen rags that made for her towel and shoved them at her. 

“Get out.” 

Isith sighed and obediently accepted the rags. Vilkas turned his back to her and waited several minutes until she finally announced that she was decent. When he turned around, she had dressed. He didn’t spare a breath before launching into her. 

“Isith, if this is about those things that Aela said to you, tell me now and so help me she’ll be taking them back within the hour.” 

“Aela has nothing to do with it, Vilkas. I’m doing this because it needs to be done.” She stepped into him and jabbed her finger into his chest. “The rest of you can either sit my mind at ease and defend Jorrvaskr or tell me I’m a fool and watch me ride off into the sunset. Either way, I’ve made up my mind.” 

“And if we stop you?” 

“Then I’ll put my boot so far up your asses that I’ll already have done the assassins’ jobs for them.” 

“Sorry, little one, but I don’t believe you. You set one foot outside of Jorrvaskr and I’ll have every last Companion coming after you.” 

Isith shook her head. “No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Gods damn it all, Vilkas!” Isith yelled. 

He was knocked backward by the force of her fists pounding against his chest. 

“I need you all here! You’ll be dead before you’re any use to me if you come with me. None of you seem to understand how vindictive the Dark Brotherhood is! Even if they cut me down, they’ll come after all of you out of spite! They’ll make an example of us all! But maybe, just maybe, I can take them out first. I can finish them before they ever get here. I just need someone to listen to me!” 

Her words struck him harder than her fists. “Isith…” 

She ignored him. “I’ll be in the dining hall in ten minutes to give my orders. Follow them or don’t. But if you’re the man I think you are then help me convince them.” She looked up at him pleadingly. “Vilkas, please.” 

……………………………………. 

Farkas raged for hours after Isith announced her plans. After she had delivered her rather sweeping speech, she had left everyone to stew as the Circle members and Brynjolf withdrew to the Underforge in order to discuss the matter in private. Isith sat silently on the ground and judging by the blank look on her face, her mind was somewhere else than the meeting at hand. 

Farkas and Vilkas were going round for round and it was soon discovered by all that the smaller twin was capable circular logic that almost rivaled the Harbinger’s. 

After a particularly brutal bout of arguing, Isith was finally drawn into fray. “Enough.” She ordered quietly. “I’m going whether any of you like it or not. The argument is settled.” 

She took a shaky breath. “But I’ll need time to prepare myself.” 

A chorus of infuriated cries rang out in the cool air of the cave as Isith stood. Farkas moved to stop her, his hands gripping her shoulders so tightly that she could not attempt to struggle. 

“You can’t do this.” 

When Isith fidgeted under his grip, the large Nord did not budge. He continued to stare at her, pleading. His eyes dulled as he realized his wife-to-be had already made up her mind. He shook her desperately. 

“Let her go, Farkas.” It was Vilkas who spoke. 

Farkas turned his head to stare at his brother as if he’d gone mad. His dark brows knitted together in a look of betrayal as he recoiled from the words he’d just heard. Across from him, Brynjolf’s expression remained stony and impassive as he watched the scene unfold. 

Vilkas took a step forward and placed a gentle hand on his twin’s shoulder. “I would not ask you do it, brother, if I did not believe she was coming home.” 

For a brief moment, Isith’s eyes lit up and she gave Vilkas a small nodded of appreciation. 

Farkas’ eyes narrowed on his brother, though he did not release Isith from his grip. “Vilkas – ” 

Vilkas interrupted him, turning his gaze to Isith instead. “Do you truly believe you can do this?” 

She nodded. 

“Then we will be waiting here for your return.” 

Isith sighed, her breath tickling Farkas’ hand so that he looked back to her. Defeated, his grip loosened and she was finally able to step away. 

Quietly, she left them with a simple order. “Have Eorlund sharpen my weapons, please.” 

………………………………… 

Down in her quarters, Isith fingered the black armor that was spread out before her. The ancient Brotherhood armor was as black Sithis’ soul and haggard as the wraps of the Nightmother. It had served her well for a time. Now, it was time to don it once more. She slipped her cotton slacks over her hips and let them fall to floor silently. The dark leather pants fit more snuggly than they once had and she fleetingly noted that she filled out in the weeks past. The cuirass no longer strayed from her flesh in some places as it melded to fit over her breasts and belly. Only the boots and gloves seemed a familiar fit to her. 

She did not bother to look in the mirror when she had finished dressing. She did not wish to see herself as she once had. With a final glance at the room around her, the room that had become _hers_ and _his_ , she turned to leave. The walk to the dining hall stretched on longer than usual, silence hanging from the stone walls like tapestries. From one room she heard Cicero’s whimpers and she paused for the briefest moment. Would they do to her what had been done to him? Shaking off the thought, she went on. 

She felt heavier as she climbed the steps that led upstairs where they were all waiting. She prayed this would not be last time she faced them. 

Eorlund was waiting for her at the top stair, her dual daedric blades in his hands, gleaming in the dim firelight. He passed them to her wordlessly, meeting her eyes for a moment as if to bid her goodbye before stepping away. 

She busied herself with sheathing the swords as she approached the waiting group that had gathered in the hall. The thieves looked livid, exchanging wild-eyed glances with each other as they chewed at their lips. Yes, she imagined they all had quite the mouthful for her. 

Some of the Companions had reacted more strongly to her news that she expected. Only Njada and Athis remained impassive. Even old Vignar was shifting nervously from foot to foot. Aela stood by the door, satisfied though too aware of the friends that surrounded her to show it. 

Vilkas nodded to her and clasped her shoulder as she passed. For a moment, Isith thought he might say something but instead he remained silent. The look in his eyes translated his thoughts clearly enough. Loud and clear it seemed to say, “You better not disappoint me.” 

When she came to Brynjolf, he swept her up in an engulfing hug. He bent his head so that his mouth was at her ear and whispered, “Don’t make me run the thieves guild alone, lass.” Isith almost smiled at that. 

As for her lover, he would not look at her. 

She paused when she reached him and tried to meet his eyes. “Farkas…” 

He snapped his eyes up from the floor. “This isn’t right.” He said. 

Isith remained silent. 

“I…I need you to come back. Whole and alive.” 

“I will, Farkas.” 

“We’ve got a wedding to plan.” 

The idea brought tears to Isith’s eyes and she faltered for moment, every fiber of being screaming at her to not go out the door. 

“We do,” she whispered, “And we will. I love you, Farkas.” She stepped close to him so that she could kiss him farewell. Her lips found his and she breathed him in. _Ash and pine_ , she thought. 

Before she could convince herself to stay, she moved from his reach. Her fingers went to her lips as she savored the kiss. 

He did not look at her again. 

It was time to go. As her hand reached for the door, Aela stopped her, looking at her intently, green eyes to green eyes. “Be careful.” The woman warned. 

“And you,” Isith did her best to steady her voice, “Be ready…until you hear from me one way or another. Just in case.” 

Red nodded just once and Isith slipped out the door, leaving Jorrvaskr behind. 

She had not been gone long when Vilkas leaned over Brynjolf. He was the first in the entire room to speak and even so, it was only loud enough for those closest to him to hear. 

“The girl is going to need help.” 

Brynjolf’s eyes widened in surprise briefly but he caught onto the wolf’s thinking quickly enough. His own ideas had not been so different. He grinned and reached out to swat Farkas on the shoulder to draw him into the conspiracy. 

Farkas just barely heard Brynjolf’s question as he turned. 

“Well then, how far should we let her get before we go after her?” 


	33. Chapter 33

It was a long walk to the stables and Isith’s heart beat faster with each step. When she reached the familiar building, she led Shadowmere from the barn. The horse danced about, pawing and whinnying until he reached the road. Isith had no doubt he sensed what she was feeling. By her own order, she could very well be headed to her death. No back up, no cavalry, just her and a group of assassins. She would be outnumbered an unknown number to one. She wasn’t stupid enough to assume the assassins Babette had flanking her would be all she brought. 

The one thing that settled her mind was the knowledge that Jorrvaskr should be safe. 

_So long as the Dark Brotherhood keeps their end of the bargain._

The minutes it took her to saddle Shadowmere were spent in solemn contemplation. Endless scenarios played out in her mind, some of which she emerged from victorious. Others were much grimmer. 

As she climbed on top of the great black stallion, she tried to assuage her nerves by reminding herself repeatedly that she was the Dragonborn. She had other things to do, things in her future, people that were counting on her. Surely, she would not die today. Not yet. 

_I hope._

Her throat dry as the deserts of Hammerfell, she gulped once before digging her heels into the horse’s sides. __

It was a short ride to the ruins of Western watchtower, hardly out of sight of the city walls, but far enough that there would be no one to come to her aid. 

The deep blackness of the night seemed to envelop her as her eyes scanned the area in vain. Even the clouds seemed to be against her, shielding the moon and stars from shining down to aid her. Closing her eyes, she let her other senses reach out. Her hearing, impossibly sharp due to her wolf’s blood, and thankfully so, caught the soft shuffle of boots against stone as assassins moved into their positions throughout the keep. How many? She could not wager an accurate guess. 

She tugged back on Shadowmere’s reins, reaching down absentmindedly to stroke the horse’s coarse mane. Whether or not it was an attempt to comfort herself or the stallion, she could not be sure. 

She took a breath. 

She counted to three. 

And then it was time. 

She called out, her voice loud and clear. “I am here, Babette. Let’s end this.” 

The chilling tinkle of childish laughter drifted out from the ruined watchtower and moments later, the menace herself danced into view. 

“So dramatic! I haven’t been this excited about a kill in ages!” Babette twirled about as she seemingly glided over cold grass toward Isith, her tiny feet carrying her weightlessly on the tips of her toes. The little girl giggled and clapped her hands together. 

She grinned at her intended prey, saying, “This really has gone on for far too long, you know?” 

Isith scoffed from her perch on Shadowmere, shaking her head but never breaking eye contact with the vampire. “This didn’t have to go on at all. You could have let me retire in peace. Everybody would have won.” 

Babette wiggled a small, pale finger at her, tsk-ing as her dark waves bounced around. “That game would have been no fun at all! This is much better, Listener, don’t you think?” 

Isith responded with a nonchalant shrug, shifting noisily in the saddle. “No, not really. I don’t think I like this game at all.” 

Babette made a face and for moment Isith was reminded just how manipulative the vampire could be. The child actually looked petulant at Isith’s response, as if she had just been told she could not have dessert. 

“You’re no fun, Listener,” Babette sighed, “Then again, if I were in your position, I’d feel the same way.” 

Isith found herself quickly growing tired of Babette’s little game. As much as she loved mindless banter, she didn’t think her nerves could take anymore at the moment. 

“Enough, Babette. May we get this over with, please?” 

The vampire’s eyes twinkled in the dark. She smiled. “Of course, dear Listener. But I’m thinking you should get off your horse, first. Just so it’s fair.” 

“Easy eno-“ 

**_Thwump_** _!_

The arrow, fired from an unseen bowman atop the tower, hit Isith just as she had started to shift her weight, its force great enough to send her tumbling off backward over Shadowmere’s flank and into the dirt. Her head snapped back painfully against the cold, hard ground and she cursed aloud. One hand went to the arrow, which was buried solidly in the meat of between her neck and shoulder, while another fished out for leverage to haul her body up. 

She cursed herself for allowing them to strike the first blow. She had known they would not play fair. Cursing, she scrambled up. One hand wrapped around the shaft and she gritted her teeth before ripping the arrow from her shoulder. Blood gushed from the wound but she felt no pain. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she took in the scene that was quickly unfolding before her. 

Assassins filtered out of the darkness like a swarm of flies to fresh meat. She counted off at least a dozen, noting each and every face as they sped toward her. She reached for the bow she had strapped to her saddle and snatched it from its bindings. In only a few short seconds, she grabbed an arrow, notched it, and released it. It flew true and straight, burying itself in throat of the nearest assassin. 

She fired off two more lethal shots before they were upon her. Her bow was dropped to the ground, forgotten, as she drew her blades and braced herself for the fray. 

The first of the assassins clashed with her with a violent scream, planting his foot in her midsection as Isith raised her arms to block his main attack. The shear force and fluidity of the movement told her exactly what she feared most. 

Her attackers were not inexperienced killers harvested off the streets in desperation. These people knew exactly what they were doing. The likelihood of her survival dropped with almost palpable force. 

Isith, her mind and stomach reeling, recovered from the kick and she spun out of her attacker’s range. Another assassin, an Argonian, had approached from behind her and her blade slid through his scaly belly like butter before he was ever able to swing. 

The first assassin closed in on her as she shoved the Argonian away, pushing him into the charging assassin and causing him to stumble. He caught himself just in time to block one of her blades as it came crashing down toward his neck. Isith growled in frustration and swung her twin blade round to catch the man across the side, the daedric sword slicing through his armor with little resistance. The wound caused him a momentary but fatal moment of panic and Isith removed his head clean from his shoulders. 

She took a breath, spinning around to survey the assassins circling her. Five so far had fallen. At least nine more remained. 

Vilkas and Aela had been right. Cicero had lied. 

“Seven” assassins her ass. 

_“Oh, the teeny bloodsucker has not found more than seven, Listener_ .” _That_ s _onofabitch_. 

Isith cried out in rage as she thought, her swords swinging through the air without pause. One assassin’s arm severed and flew to the ground with a satisfying _flop._

_“I would not lead you astray, Listener.”_

Another arm dropped to the ground, this one cut clean from the elbow. 

_“I am loyal to you, dear, sweet, kind, Listener.”_

Isith ended the armless assassin’s misery by sinking her sword into his heart. The sting of betrayal was not sharp enough to slow her. The fear, however, that settled in her gut nearly stopped her dead in her tracks. Cicero was a traitor to her. Nothing he said was of value. He was alive and inside the walls of Jorrvaskr. She realized his true purpose all too late. 

She faltered. 

_No_ . She gasped aloud. _No, he wouldn’t._

…………………………………………………………………….. 

In depths of Jorrvaskr, the soul assassin within its hallowed walls opened his eyes to the darkness around him. He could hear the others upstairs, all of them except _her._ His Listener. His leader. His betrayer. 

His body twitched with hope that the wicked child was skinning her alive at this very moment. Sent her into a trap, he had. He _could_ have told her the truth about the Dark Brotherhood’s numbers. He _could_ have warned her that Babette had enlisted help from a fringe group in Morrowind, more than doubling her original roster. He _could_ have told her about the message the Night Mother herself had delivered to them all in their dreams. 

He could have. 

But he didn’t. 

Cicero slid from the bed, hardly noticing the pain that throbbed in his limbs. The wounds had been necessary to fool the others. It had been his pleasure to inflict them upon himself. 

The image the Night Mother had presented him with was burned into his mind as he moved to the other side of the room to the dresser where he had stowed the components. He had hidden them well, like child hiding candy from his parents. Or a dog burying away a fleshy, bloody, rotting bone to retrieve later. 

The Night Mother’s desire was clear, her plan perfectly deadly. So brilliant…so impossible that no one could have thought of it. Perhaps the blasphemer Astrid had been the closest. But even she hadn’t had any idea of the true power of the Black Sacrament. No, she had not been worthy nor had their family yet reached the threshold of annihilation required for Mother to intervene. 

How foolish of the Listener to think she could end the Dark Brotherhood. Such arrogance. 

_Yes_ , he shivered with delight, _this will be gloriouuusss!_

Though the Night Mother had not spoken a single word to any of them, she had _shown_ them. Cicero thought back to the night. For several days he had done the traitorous Listener’s bidding, spying from the shadows as the other assassins milled about under the vampire’s orders. But the dream had come to him the same night as it did the others. 

When sleep took him, she had shown him and the others the way. After all, such grievous betrayal by the Listener herself would not go unpunished. Her life alone was not enough to satiate Sithis in the Void. Mother had been clear about that. 

Cicero fumbled around for the candles he had hidden under the dresser, pulling them out one by one. He danced as he placed them all in a circle, careful to make it large enough. He had to fit in it, after all. 

When the candles were in place, he rummaged through the dresser until he found the nightshade he had tucked away. He giggled. Those foolish barbarians had made it easy for him to find all the necessary components for the Black Sacrament. All he’d had to do was steal out of his room when they were asleep or away and gather the ingredients as he found them. It had taken time, but he had found everything. 

When it was all in place, he sighed, stepping back to admire his work. It was perfect. Mother would be so proud. 

Without a second thought, Cicero dropped to his knees in the center of the circle. He drew the dagger from its sheath at his side and began the chant. 

“Mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me. For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.” 

They were the sanest words the mad man had spoken in some time. Yes, Mother would be proud indeed. 

With that, the jester took one last steadying breath and plunged the dagger into his own heart. 

He fell into the Void before the first products of the ritual began to materialize, ready and willing to sink daggers into the backs of all who waited above. 

……………………………………………………………………… 

It was all Vilkas could do to restrain his brother. A heavy fist collided with his jaw and he stumbled, regaining his ground just in time to catch Farkas once more as the larger twin tried to barrel around him. 

“Brother! You can’t!” Vilkas shoved his twin back with all his strength. 

Farkas snarled, barring his teeth and shoving a finger roughly into his brother’s chest. “Out of my way, Vilkas!” 

“You are staying here! You will put the girl in danger if you accompany us. Isith cannot afford to be distracted! Let me go with Brynjolf and a few others. You have to stay here. If she sees you at risk –” 

“No!” Farkas snapped, “One more word Vilkas and I’ll break you in half! We’re wasting time!” 

“Stay here, Farkas! We’ll keep her safe. On my life, I will not let them touch her.” 

“And neither will I!” Farkas’ hand moved up to grip the top of Vilkas’ cuirass as he jerked the other Nord forward so that they stood nose to nose. His eyes narrowed and he met his brother’s identical gaze with fierce determination. “No more arguing, Vilkas. We go now.” 

Vilkas frowned before breaking free of Farkas’ grip. He knew they could not tarry any longer. He worried that bringing Farkas along would be a distraction to Isith during her fight. He certainly did not want to risk it. Yet, knowing his brother’s thick-headedness and love for Isith, he doubted he could really stop the man. Finally, he conceded. 

“Fine. Come along.” 

Vilkas motioned for Brynjolf to join them. At the thief’s heels followed Niruin, who was chosen in order to provide covering fire during the fight. 

Brynjolf came to stop in front of them. “Are we ready?” 

Farkas gave his brother little time to respond before he turned away and started for the door. The two thieves followed behind him. Vilkas, however, did not move. Not even a muscle. His eyes were locked on the far corner of the room. He had seen…something. A slight glimmer in the shadows caught his eye again, barely perceptible for anyone who was not paying attention. 

_What is that…_ a similar glimmer in the shadows closest to him drew his attention. He tilted his head and squinted, still not certain he was seeing anything at all _._

Behind him, Farkas’ rough voice barked at him. “Vilkas!” 

Vilkas glanced at him and then back to the shadows. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him. He sighed with audible relief. 

“I’m coming, Farkas. Go.” 

He had made only one step toward the door before Jorrvaskr seemed to be ripped asunder in front of his eyes. There was a rippling in the air and a cold chill spread down Vilkas’ spine. Farkas and the others noticed it as well and they faltered for moment, glancing around them. Vilkas noticed the glimmer in the darkness once more before the shadows themselves began to twist and turn, curving and flowing into a siphoning vortex. Dread filled him and he stepped back, bumping into Brynjolf who, like Vilkas, could not take his eyes off the spinning blackness. 

In the center of the dark whirlpool, a crimson stream flowed, intertwining with the tainted air and dripping down onto the floor below. 

_Drip drip._

The splatter of the mysterious blood quickly covered the ground, its scent pervading Vilkas’ nostrils and urging him to turn away. He did not. No one did. As the vortex twisted round there appeared to be glimpses of something. What it was, Vilkas did not know. In the back of his mind he had to wonder if he was staring into the fabled Void itself. 

The others across the room cried out in shock. Vilkas barely heard them as the portals spat out the first of their unearthly enemies. The creature landed on the ground in a heap of cloth and bone, unmoving at first. The scrape of metal rang through the air as everyone drew their weapons. Beside him, Vilkas saw his brother waver, his eyes flashing to the door and back again. 

Sudden realization dawned on Vilkas. The Dark Brotherhood had launched their attack on Jorrvaskr itself. As if on cue, the skeletal pile began to move, rebuilding itself until it stood. It was not able to move before an arrow from Niruin’s bow shattered it back into pieces. 

The explosion of bone shook Vilkas from his stupor and he turned to his brother. “Go!” he shouted, “Help Isith. I will stay.” 

Farkas gave a single hurried nod before moving toward the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Vilkas saw that he was half out of it before he stumbled suddenly. Farkas cried out and Vilkas turned to see that an arrow had struck his twin in the arm. Farkas whirled about to face the skeletal bowman across the room. His eyes flashed yellow while one hand moved to snap the bolt off near the tip. 

Brynjolf had already taken off across the room, shouting orders to his thieves. Vilkas watched from the corner of his eye as the thief snatched a panicking Evrim by the collar and whispered something in his ear. He didn’t hear what the thief said and he didn’t much care. 

Until he and Farkas could cut down enough of the undead assassins to make it out the door, Isith was on her own. 

**………………………………………………**

It was only after the initial shock of Cicero’s apparent betrayal had dissipated that Isith noticed the blade jutting out from her ribs. She glanced down and eyed the jagged black tip of the sword warily, her features twisting in disbelief and surprise. 

_When did that get there?_

The pain took her suddenly and she stumbled, sliding off the sword as if it were a pin being pulled from a cushion. Somewhere in her path to the ground she was able to twist her body around to look. Her eyes fell on a Redguard, the same one that had accompanied Babette to that accursed meeting. He was grinning sickly from ear to ear, proud of his handiwork. 

Isith would have given him her best scowl if she hadn’t hit the dirt in that moment. Lying on her back, she frowned as her fingers went to her wound. For a second, the pain crept to the back of her mind as she sought to understand the sudden development. 

It couldn’t be as bad as all that. She had taken worse blows than this. ‘Twas but a flesh wound. No, this would not stop her. Nothing short of killing her would stop her. 

With a groan, she rolled over as the Redguard closed in on her. She reached for her sword, her hand gripping the pommel securely. 

And then she stood back up. 

Unsteady at first, she righted herself and twirled her sword with one hand while gripping her side with the other. She met the man’s gaze and her lips twitched through the pain until she had a full blown smirk plastered across her face. 

The Redguard’s smile faded and he froze. Isith rushed at him, forcing the pain away to where it could not slow her down. She let pure adrenaline replace it, her strength fueled by the urgent need to keep going. She took the large man by surprise and aimed her sword at his ribs. The blade worked its way between two of the bones, raking over them as it went. Isith paused for a moment to study the man’s face. 

“Hurts doesn’t it?” she whispered before she wrenched the sword clean out of the Redguard’s side. She turned away, confident that he would bleed out in moments. That would make six. 

The eight assassins that remained would not stop her. If Cicero had truly done what she suspected then time was of the essence. Jorrvaskr was anything but safe and she would fight until her last breath to reach it. Babette, two khajiit, and five others were all that stood between her and victory. 

Though her ear drums were pounding with the pumping of her heart, she heard Babette’s screech clearly enough. Three of the assassins rushed her at the vampire’s orders. Isith braced herself, cleared her mind, and let the power of the thu’um rise up within her. 

“ _Fus ro da_!” 

Two of the attackers were launched backward by the invisible force. One of them crashed into part of the tower’s ruins and the woman landed at a twisted angle. Isith heard her back snap on impact. 

_Good, that’s five._

Only one lucky assassin, an elf, was able to avoid the range of Isith’s shout. He powered through the shadows, quicker than a human could have moved. He feinted away just as he reached her. Isith mirrored his movement but swung her sword low as she danced away. The blade just clipped the elf’s leg and he stumbled, cursing in a language Isith did not know. 

She squared herself with him and lunged. Despite his wound, he dodged her blow and spun around behind her, tucking his sword close as he swept it across her back. Isith cried out as the blade cut partially through her armor and dragged across her skin fiercely enough to draw blood. She leapt away, trying to put distance between her and the assassin as she recovered. 

The wound in her ribs throbbed more than ever with the addition of her newest cut. Her shoulder still ached from the arrow. She paused. She was losing blood quickly. As her heart beat faster, blood gushed from the wounds more profusely. 

It was an infuriating thought, realizing she could not fight her own body as it struggled against her. _Not yet_ , she thought through the sudden haze of light-headedness, _I won’t go down yet_. 

She kept moving back, cursing herself for not being adept at healing magic. Her eyes scanned the scene before her. The assassins were watching her cautiously, half amazed that she had lasted this long. To her far left, she noticed that the assassin she had hit with her thu’um had picked up her own bow. 

Too shocked at the sight of her own weapon turned against her, she watched with something akin to curiosity as the assassin struggled with the draw of the bow, unused to it. She took the momentary break in combat to realign herself, carefully positioning the elf between her own body and the bowman’s. 

The elf chose that moment to charge at her again. She moved her foot back, ready to place it square in his face. Only he went low. She lashed out too late and the lack of resistance caused her to pitch forward. It was all too late then. Unintentionally, she gave the bowman a clear shot. The arrow found its mark just under her right hip bone. She cried out as her leg caved under her, the arrow working sharply against bone. 

As she hit her knees, a blow to her head as the elf backhanded her nearly knocked her senseless. She toppled over, shaking her head desperately to clear it. 

_No. No._

She screamed her denial and her blade whipped out in time to catch the elf across the belly. His eyes glazed over as his insides started to seep through the deep gash of his skin and armor. 

Isith did not wait for him to fall. She staggered to her feet and down again she went. It wasn’t until she heard Babette’s childish laughter that she had the strength to struggle again. From the dirt, she dragged herself, gritting her teeth until she swore one of them cracked. 

Waiting for her when she managed to get to her knees was one of the khajiit. He watched her as a house cat would a cornered pest. With a hiss, he lashed out, planting his boot square in her face. Her lip busted, splitting down to the meat. She flew onto her back and blood, metallic and hot, gushed into her mouth and down her throat. For a moment she thought she’d choke and she rolled to her side as she coughed violently in response to the blood seeping down her throat. The violent spasms caused the wound through her ribs to scream in protest. In her mind she knew could not take much more. 

Her heart told her otherwise, even as the khajiit’s knife settled over her chest. 

_Have to get up_ . She cursed herself. _I must! Farkas, oh, Farkas_. She thought she might retch. He and the others were at the Brotherhood’s mercy. She shut her eyes tight and cursed her foolishness. For all she knew they may already be dead. 

_No. Not dead. Not those tough bastards. Aghh…but Cicero. Get up, Isith, get up._

She actually tried before feeling the khajiit’s boot on her shoulder as he pressed her back down. She cut her eyes up at him as if to dare him. 

“Do it!” she growled. “I’ll kill you if you don’t.” 

Above her, the khajiit seemed to purr, the sound vibrating all the way through the sole of his boot and into her chest. He turned his head away and called out to Babette. 

“Kill her?” 

Isith steeled herself. Her hands moved to the sides of the cat’s foot but she did not dare touch him. She could not hope to move him as he was now with all his weight pressed upon her battered body. 

Babette answered him. Later she would realize it was her saving grace. “No. I want to do it. Step aside.” 

The khajiit growled but did not bother to look back. Isith waited and as he began to lift his foot away, she struck. When his balance was at its weakest, her hands locked down on his foot and twisted. He started to fall just as Isith hauled herself off the ground with a strangled cry of rage. She came up behind him and as she moved and she ripped the knife from his unsuspecting hands. Her hand gripped one of his ears and jerked his head back as she worked the blade across his throat. As he fell, she reared back and sent the knife sailing through the air. It grazed the bowman’s side and he dropped his weapon. 

Nearby, she heard clapping. Babette had closed in on her. Her red eyes flashed as she smiled. “That was quite the show, Listener. I thought you had gone soft,” those eyes drifted over Isith and she was silent for a moment, “Seems I was wrong. Oh dear.” 

Isith found she could not respond. She feared that if she opened her mouth, she may collapse. She could barely stand as it was. Her body screamed one thing while her mind screamed another. 

It seemed that she was not the only one who had nothing left to say. The khajiit behind Babette rushed forward suddenly. The little vampire cried out as she was roughly shoved aside to make room for the cat. Isith flinched. If she went down again she would not get back up. Blindly she reached for her sword at her side and found it was not there. She had nothing. 

Time seemed to slow as Isith watched the khajiit close the distance. His sword glinted in the moonlight as he raised it high above his head. As fast as his feet were moving, Isith felt that the moments dragged on. If she focused hard enough, she thought she might be able to count them. 

Another series of loping steps and she was positive she could almost reach and touch the assassin. Briefly, she wondered if she might throw herself out of the way. She tried to move. 

No, her body seemed to be ignoring her. 

The khajiit was almost on her when she heard Babette’s high-pitched wail of terror. 

Out of the corner of her eye Isith saw flame. Babette went up like kindling as a fireball hit her square in the chest. Another fireball flew past and she felt its heat. The khajiit registered the flaming projectile all too late and soon he was engulfed. The remaining assassin attempted to scamper away, turning and hauling ass out of the fight that had gone so horribly wrong so suddenly. It was not flame that hit him but a spear of ice that pierced his torso. 

Unable to stand any longer, Isith collapsed. She hit the ground with a solid _thud_. Hands were on her suddenly and her body began to grow uncomfortably warm. She groaned and attempted to turn her head. To her relief, Evrim was bent low over her, his hands heating and glowing with the sweet hum of restoration magic. 

“Evrim,” Isith barely managed to whisper. 

The mage scolded her. “Hush, child. There is no time.” 

“Evrim?” 

He scoffed, “Fat lot of help you are, you know. Jorrvaskr is under attack by, by _something._ And _you_! Look at you! You’re nearly dead.” He paused just long enough to glare at her. “Now stop talking.” 

Isith ignored him and cursed a storm anyway. She struggled to sit up and was pushed back down. 

“There is no time for your theatrics now,” he hissed, “I must do what I can and then the rest is up to you.” 

“You said something was attacking them. What? More assassins? How many?” 

“No, not assassins. I don’t know what in the name of Magnus they are but they came out of nowhere. Flooding out of the shadows as if gates to the Void itself had opened up.” 

Wincing, Isith shot up and snatched Evrim by the collar. “ _What_?” 

The elf focused a particularly strong jolt of healing magic over her wounded shoulder and Isith yelped and released him. 

“I don’t know. We certainly didn’t plan for them, that’s for sure.” 

Isith growled and slammed her fist into the ground at her side, sending dirt flying up on to Evrim’s robes. _Cicero… I knew it! Damn him_. Whatever twisted idea he had planned, she did not know, but no doubt he had done…something. __

She questioned the mage further, “Is everyone alright? Farkas?” 

“They were holding their own when I slipped out. Well, when that brute of a thief ordered me out, really –“ 

“How did you escape?” 

Evrim narrowed his golden eyes at her. “Through the door,” he snapped with a huff. “Then I went through…what do you call it? That cave.” 

“The Underforge?” 

“Yes, through the entrance at the back. I suggest you do the same.” 

Isith sighed as the last bit of restoration ran through her body. “Indeed.” She tried to move and found that her body still ached. Evrim had not been able heal everything properly but she was no longer in danger of bleeding to death. 

She barely heard him when he whispered, “I am sorry. There will be scars.” 

“A few more won’t matter. Thank you for saving me, Evrim,” she clasped one hand to the Altmer’s thin arm, “I would have been dead if not for your impeccable timing.” 

“Yes, you would have. But that’s why I’m here. I’ve done my part now you get to yours. The night is not over yet.” 

Isith stood, swaying uneasily, before reaching out to help up the elf. “I need you do one last thing. Find the Jarl. Tell him to send guards to Jorrvaskr if he can.” 

Evrim nodded. “Very well.” 

Isith gathered up what weapons she could find before turning to set off for the Underforge tunnel. Just before she took the first step, she paused and looked back at Evrim. 

“Oh,” she called, “Make sure that vampiric brat is dead, won’t you? I don’t have the time to waste on her.” 


	34. Chapter 34

Vilkas was the only one to see his brother fall. He had just hefted his greatsword through the middle of one skeletal assassin when he happened to look over at Farkas. A figure, lean and clad in rags, loomed in the shadows behind the large Nord. The sight caused Vilkas to pause for a moment, half out of need to catch his breath and half to warn his brother. 

He shouted and Farkas heard him, identifying his brother’s voice above the sounds of battle after years of hearing it. Farkas cut down the last of the assassins around him before turning to look over at his twin. Vilkas was already sprinting toward him, one had pointing frantically to the figure behind him. 

He watched as Farkas whirled about, clearly on alert as he lifted his ax in front of his body. The figure reached out a frail hand and gripped the ax just above where Farkas held it and wrenched the weapon away with impossible strength. It landed with a clatter some feet away. 

Vilkas cried out as he covered the last few yards to his brother. He watched as Farkas took a swing, catching his new enemy on the jaw with force so strong it should have knocked the boney head clean off its shoulders. Whatever it was, it recovered, barely shaken. 

“Farkas, move!” Vilkas shouted at the top of his lungs. 

The twin heard him and side stepped just in time as Vilkas came barreling past to hurl his sword into the abdomen of the figure. It was like cutting through air. There was no pinch from piercing flesh or puncturing organ. Only the brittle bones and flaky exterior of the figure’s middle seemed to resist the blade at all. 

Vilkas’ features went slack as he gaped at his enemy in surprise. He had no time to move as the figure wrapped one hand around his throat and drove him backward into the wall. For the first time, it spoke. Its voice was hollow and rough but feminine in pitch and had an echo-like quality to it as if he were hearing it through the winding tunnels of a cave. 

“You are not the brother that concerns me.” The words sounded serpentine as they drawled out in a hiss. 

Suddenly, he was let go and left to fall to the floor. He hit the ground gasping and toppling over as his hands went to his throat. The figure rounded once more on Farkas and Vilkas forgot whatever pain he was in. His brother had been threatened and it would not stand. He pulled himself up off the floor with a heavy grunt. 

A few feet away, Farkas met his eyes for a brief moment before his twin’s gaze hardened and returned once more to the threat that was slowly making its way toward him. 

“Kill you,” it hissed, “Kill the Listener.” 

Vilkas did not miss the recognition that flooded over his brother’s features suddenly. He heard Farkas’ rumbling voice as he said, “I know who you are…and you won’t have her.” 

The figure cackled and tossed its skeletal head back in laughter as yellowed strands of hair slipped from the confines of its wrappings. 

It moved with surprising speed, catching Farkas by the top of his chest plate and dragging him to it. 

That same hissing voice came again, this time saying, “Consider it a mercy, you fool. You won’t have to watch her die.” 

Vilkas could watch no more. He hurled himself at the figure again. It released its grip on Farkas just in time to catch Vilkas as he drew close. He felt one cold hand grab one of his arms. Another appeared seemingly out of nowhere at his hip and then he was being shoved away again. He flew back against the nearest wall, slamming into it hard enough that he felt two of his ribs as they shattered. An enraged bellow erupted from him and his hand went to his side to grab his dagger. 

It was not there. It had been taken. 

His rage was quickly replaced by disbelief as he saw his own dagger in the hands of the creature that held Farkas in her grip. He watched as his own dagger was plunged into his brother’s chest. He heard the give of steel armor and the tearing of flesh followed by the awful choke that Farkas could not hold back. He watched as the figure released his twin and let him sink to the ground without a second thought. 

A scream of denial tore from Vilkas chest as he scrambled across the floor to his brother. Farkas lay gasping, the blade driven just deep enough to kill him slowly. Vilkas cried out again as he reached him, hauling the other Nord into his lap. 

“Farkas! Brother, look at me.” 

Silver eyes met his, shutting once as Farkas winced. 

He sputtered, “Stop her, Vilkas.” A sick groan filled the air and Farkas did his best to cut it short. “Don’t let ‘em kill Isith. You take care of her.” 

Vilkas shook his head violently. “No. Get up. _Get up_! Gods damn it, where is Evrim?” 

He looked around frantically but all he saw was more bloodshed. The firm grip of his brother’s hand on his wrist drew Vilkas’ attention once more. 

“Make sure she lives through this, Vilkas. Make sure she’s,” Farkas’ breaths were becoming more labored as he went on, “happy.” 

A single crash followed by sudden uproar drowned out what Farkas said next. Vilkas glanced up, tearing his eyes from his brother for a desperate second, praying for a miracle. He found it. 

Isith stood in the doorway to the training yard. She was badly bloodied and her armor was all but shredded, gapping to reveal red patches of skin that had only just been healed. Vilkas saw the flash of her eyes as she scanned the room to take in the scene before her. When her green gaze fell on Farkas, Vilkas thought the whole world might come undone. Her fury was palpable even to the long-dead assassins who had withdrawn from their battles at the appearance of the Listener. 

Across the room from Isith stood the figure, which Vilkas had only too late realized to be the Night Mother. 

The Listener’s eyes widened and then narrowed once more. She spoke a single word which Vilkas could not hear. He could only guess it was one of acknowledgement. 

Isith started across the across the room, limping noticeably on one leg. 

Her first words were taunting. “I thought when souls like ours went to the Void they stayed there.” 

The Night Mother responded almost casually, as if long used to speaking with the Listener. It struck Vilkas that that was indeed the case. “The Dark Brotherhood has never been this close to extinction before. You betrayed us at a rather opportune time. Measures had to be taken.” 

“Couldn’t find any more of the living to do your work, I see. What are they?” Isith thumbed at the remaining skeletons. “Besides dead.” 

“They are the spirits of the ones who came before you. They are all willing servants of our lord, even in death. They answered his call.” 

“Seems like cheating to me.” 

Vilkas had to smile. Even Farkas, as he struggled to hold on, had heard her and he grinned through the pain. Even when confronted with all that was before her, she was still the women they both loved. 

The Night Mother’s voice rang chillingly through the air as she replied, “They are performing their duty as promised to Sithis –“ 

At that Isith sneered, her lip curling in disgust. “You know, I’ve made deals with gods all over Skyrim, from the Divines to the Daedric. But one god I never promised anything to is yours. The only thing I owe Sithis is trouble. I didn’t ask to be his Listener and as far as I’m concerned…he can pick a new one.” 

Several excited cries went up around the room from thieves and Companions alike. 

The Night Mother's head snapped toward them and Vilkas could have sworn she was surprised. 

The hag snapped, “You were dismissed from that honor when you drew his children’s blood. You’ll suffer for an eternity when I send you screaming to the Void.” 

“Very well but I’ll be dragging you with me.” 

Whatever remaining words needed to be said after that were forgotten as Isith drew her dual blades. She readied herself before lunging at the Night Mother. All she caught were rags that ripped under the sharpness of the swords, offering little resistance. Before she could turn again, the Night Mother was behind her. Isith was grabbed from behind before being hurled halfway across the room, skidding to a stop just before she went into the fire pit. 

A jagged breath caught Vilkas’ attention and he looked down at his brother. Farkas’ skin had gone sallow and his eyelids were sagging, only to be snapped open again quickly. 

“You must hold on, brother.” 

Vilkas squeezed Farkas’ shoulder reassuringly. He drew his hand away quickly. His brother was going cold. When Farkas did not reply, Vilkas cried out to Isith. 

The blonde Nord’s head snapped in his direction immediately as she scrambled up off the floor. She looked from Farkas to the Night Mother, her face strained in panic. 

“Go. Watch him die, Listener.” 

The Night Mother’s words spurred Isith to Farkas side and she stumbled down, her hands flying out to his shoulders. 

“Farkas, look at me!” 

Upon hearing her voice, Farkas’ eyes opened once more. A strained smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He tried to speak but Isith quickly silenced him. 

She looked to Vilkas and he balked at the desperation in her eyes that so closely mirrored his own. “Help him!” 

“I cannot! The elf, where is he?” 

Suddenly, Isith paled. “Evrim? He came to save me.” She looked back down at Farkas. “He’s not here because saved _me_.” 

Farkas, his voice broken and weak, comforted her. “It’s alright. I’m glad…you’re here. You promised you’d come back and you did -” 

“Farkas!” Isith shook him. 

Vilkas and Isith barely heard the words that drifted from his lips in a final whisper. 

“I love you.” 

And like that, he was gone. 

Isith stared down at him and suddenly began to shake. It started in her hands, still latched onto Farkas’ shoulders, but quickly spread to her entire body. Rage and grief took over and before Vilkas could think to stop her, she was on her feet. 

The sounds of bones snapping filled the room and Isith doubled over. She reached out to brace herself, her hand finding Vilkas’ shoulder as she dug her fingers in deep enough to dent the iron of his armor. Her eyes were ablaze and no trace of green was left amongst the glowing yellow. 

She was shifting. _In front of everyone_ , Vilkas realized. 

_Good_ . He hoped she tore the hag apart. _For Farkas_. 

He felt a pinch and then pressure as her nails turned to claws, piercing through his armor to scrape his skin. Then she was gone from his side. She launched herself into a dead sprint at the Night Mother, who for all her supernatural might, had no time to respond before Isith had barreled into her with a snarl. 

The decrepit corpse went down with the wolf on top of her. Claws slashed across the ancient body, tearing into the fragile bone and ripping at the rags. 

With an unearthly cry, the Night Mother struck out and sent Isith across the room. The wolf landed amongst the thieves, who scattered frantically. Isith’s head snapped in the direction of the dead assassins who, as if by some unspoken order, had previously ceased their attack at her appearance. The skeletons were running at her now, fearless with their weapons drawn. Before they could fall on her, the Companions and thieves, who had quickly recovered from their shock, met them half way. As they clashed, the wolf turned on the Night Mother again. 

The Night Mother charged and Isith caught her, slamming her into the nearest and most solid piece of furniture she could find. A boney hand clamped on the wolf’s furred shoulder and began to squeeze. Isith snarled and placed a paw over the hag’s skull-like face, her clawed fingers spreading wide to cover the frightening visage as she shoved it way. The Night Mother’s vice-like grip did not weaken and under the pressure, the werewolf’s shoulder was crushed. 

Isith howled and tore herself away. One coal-black shoulder drooped low and the wolf barred its teeth with a growl that filled the ears of every person in the room. For a brief moment, everyone stopped to glance over. Vilkas stood from his brother’s side, his silver eyes wide. 

Isith made a final charge, catching the Night Mother with her good arm and driving her back toward the blazing pit in the center of the room. The two bodies, one wolf, one corpse, passed the edge of the wooden floor and fell into the pit. 

For the first time, the Night Mother screamed and it was clear that she knew pain in the seconds that passed. The wolf remained silent as she shoved the burning corpse deeper into the red-hot coals. 

The smell of burning flesh and fur filled Vilkas nostrils as he stared. He blinked once and when he opened his eyes again, both Isith and Night Mother had gone up in flames. 

. 

………………………………………………………………………….. 

. 

The world around her was black. The engulfing darkness seemed to swallow her prone form. She opened her eyes and drew in a shallow breath. No air entered her lungs and for a moment she thought she might suffocate under the oppressive darkness. She rolled over, noticing the cold for the first time. The chill cut through to her bones and even her Nord blood could not protect her from it. Again she tried to breath and her lungs filled with the smoke-like black air that surrounded her. She choked and coughed as she tried to rid her lungs of foulness. 

“Calm yourself, my child.” The voice came out of nowhere, simultaneously filling the air around her until it rang in her ears. 

Coughing, she managed to ask, “Is this…the Void?” She could only pray the answer was ‘no’. 

“Indeed it is, child. Do you know who I am?” 

A chill settled in her gut, far colder than the air. “Yes,” she replied, “You sound like the same pain in the ass as you did the last time we spoke.” 

Taking another breath of the foul air, she asked, “Am I dead?” 

“If you were not, you would not be here. The Void is closed to the living.” 

“And the Night Mother? Did I kill her?” Isith vaguely recalled the flames building around her accompanied by the screams of the old hag. She remembered the pain as her flesh had begun to burn. 

“In your mortal mind, yes, her form has been destroyed. She cannot return to your plain of existence.” 

The voice appeared to have silently summoned the subject of their conversation. In front of Isith, just a few feet away, a woman appeared. This time the Night Mother was not the skeletal corpse that Isith had come to know. She appeared human, if not alive. 

Her race was not something that Isith could make out easily but the woman was tall and lean. Her visage was haggard and time worn yet somehow regal. Death and countless years in the Void had not been kind but the woman retained what Isith assumed must have once been quite a demanding presence. Her fair hair fell over her shoulders and did not possess the yellowed hue that Isith had seen peeking out from under the corpse’s wrappings on occasion. 

The question that entered Isith’s mind first surprised her. It was not one she could hold back. 

“What is your name? Your true name.” 

The Night Mother spoke and her voice, though low and deep, was without the familiar serpentine hiss. “My name has long since been forgotten, child. Not even I remember what I was once called.” 

Isith stared at the figure of the woman she had destroyed. “Were you the first?” 

“No,” the Night Mother replied, “Nor will I be the last.” 

Isith realized she had much to ask, things her temper prevented her from asking during their confrontation at Jorrvaskr. 

“I have questions.” 

The Night Mother inclined her head. “I will answer.” 

Isith spoke again, asking, “Was it Cicero? How did those spirits enter Jorrvaskr?” 

“Yes, the fool had one final use. In his dedication he proved to be a perfect and willing participant for the sacrament. He made all this possible due in no small part to your trust.” 

“Oh, believe me, I’m kicking myself. How though? You could not speak to him. How did this plan come to be?” 

“You are correct. I could not speak to any of them. Only you were granted that privilege. But like he did with you, Sithis made it possible to present them with dreams. They were shown the plan. All they had to do was act on it. The vampire knew that she could not win alone. We left her little choice. And so she reached out to the fool once he revealed himself. Thus, the trap was laid.” 

“And you? How did you manage to get out of your cozy coffin?” 

“As I said, measures had to be taken. Just because it has not happened before does not mean it is not possible.” 

Sithis tolerated the interruption with patience. Isith did not hear him speak until the Night Mother had finished. 

“She was not so unlike you once, Listener.” He said softly, “Strong and proud. She had the strength to offer me what no other mortal could.” 

When the dread god spoke again, his voice was much closer this time. If she did not know better, Isith would have sworn that he was beside her, whispering in her ear. “She will plague you no longer, child. Her time is done, her duty complete.” 

Isith looked back to where the Night Mother stood and found that she had vanished. 

“Where did you -?” 

Sithis hushed her and she found herself lulled into silence. “There is much to discuss, child. It was her time. You must listen to me carefully.” 

Isith fought to hold in a grumble. Somehow she managed to remain silent and let Sithis continue. 

“You seem rather fond of striking deals with gods, Isith Briarblood.” 

“When it is required, yes.” 

“I admire that, child. Tell me, who holds your soul now?” 

Isith paused long enough to think, checking off the list of gods in her mind. Finally, she replied, “Last I checked it was Hircine. Or maybe Nocturnal.” 

“Untrue, dear child. I, Sithis, am in control of your soul.” 

Isith could not help but grow angry. Her fists clenched and unclenched and her body tensed. 

“I’ve made no such deals with you.” 

“Not yet. But you will, mortal.” 

Around her, Isith felt a shift in the air. The impossible cold grew colder and the darkness curled around her. A second figure appeared from nowhere and upon recognizing the man who stood before her, Isith nearly burst into tears. 

Not ten feet away, Farkas stood, his head turning this way and that as he looked about. 

Isith called to him and his eyes snapped to focus on her. She rushed to him, throwing her arms around him when she reached him. He peered down at her for a long moment but made no movement to embrace her. He seemed dumbstruck. 

When he spoke, Isith whimpered at the sound of the voice she had thought she’d never hear again. 

“Isith? You…you’re dead, then?” 

“Seems that way, big guy.” she replied, nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder. 

Slowly his arms went around her and he hugged her close in an embrace void of all warmth. She did not know if it was due to their surroundings or if death itself made it impossible to feel anything but the cold. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I promised to protect you and I didn’t.” 

“No,no. I’m sorry…I told you we had a wedding to plan. But I was too late.” 

Farkas opened his mouth to say something else but before he could he was ripped from Isith’s arms and tossed away, landing silently off in the distance. 

Isith started to cry out but found her own voice drown out by that of Sithis. 

“It is not too late, child. You can save him.” 

Isith screamed into the blackness. “Why is he here? He isn’t yours to have! His soul –it was supposed to go to-” 

“Hircine?” Sithis laughed. It was a cruel, mocking sound, one devoid of all traces of emotion. “It does not work that way, child. Finders, keepers, as you mortals say. At least for a time. Hircine will have the boy eventually. It can be sooner rather than later, however.” 

“What?” Isith grew wary. Whatever deal Sithis had been hinting at, she had a feeling she was about to hear it. 

“I’ll grant the boy his life back. He will awaken unscathed with no memory of this place.” 

Isith scoffed, “That’s convenient.” 

“Not for you, child. My price is steep.” 

“What do you ask? My soul for his? Take it, it’s yours.” She made the offer with no qualms and without regret. 

Another bout of that cruel laughter filled her ears and she winced. 

“No, Isith, my child, it is far greater than that. In return for his life and soul – along with yours- you must swear yourself to me. Serve me.” 

“I’ve already served you-“ 

“As the new Night Mother. You will continue to carry out my orders in life and upon your death your soul will belong to me first and foremost. You will lead other Listeners as they rebuild the Dark Brotherhood.” 

Isith’s blood ran cold at his words. “No! You ask too much! Anything, _anything_ but that, I beg you.” 

She hit her knees and pitched forward, her face in her hands. From deep within her, a wail erupted, piercing her own ears as it echoed in the darkness around her. 

“I will not do that! I _cannot_ do that!” 

She sat up suddenly and scrambled to her feet, screaming, “I didn’t fight this hard to become the very enemy I was fighting against! I made it this far, farther than any other – give Farkas his life back!” 

Sithis roared, “You do not bargain with me, mortal! _Make your choice_! Condemn your lover to the Void indefinitely or free him and serve _me_. You’ll go about your life as you please but when I call, and I will, you will carry out my wishes in life and death. Do you understand?” 

Isith turned her eyes to Farkas, so far away she could hardly make him out in the blackness. Finally, she broke. 

“You swear he will not remember this? He won’t have to live with this place in his mind?” 

Sithis answered her. “I swear it, child. Only you will bare this burden.” 

“And he will not return here? He’ll be free from you even after he…dies?” 

“Indeed, he will not even be worth my notice.” 

“And the others? You will not ask me to carry out your orders against them?” 

Her request seemed to cause the god pause. A long moment passed until he answered her. “Very well. Your friends will be immune to my reach.” 

Isith took one long, ragged breath. She steeled herself. 

“Then it’s a deal.” 

…………………………………………….. 

Isith awoke with a scream. She shot up from the bed in her quarters. The room was dark, much too dark. She scrambled from under the covers and bolted for the door. Her hands shook as they fumbled through the darkness. She hit the door hard enough to drive it open and send the panels crashing back against the wall. Light from the other room flooded into the bedroom and she sighed in relief. 

_I am in Jorrvaskr. I’m alive. He kept his promise_ . 

Isith looked down at her arms and found them clean and well-healed. Whether it was by Evrim’s work or Sithis’, she did not know. Her wounds were pain free save for some stiffness around her shoulder and back. 

She could not stop the sigh of relief that slipped from her lips as she fell against the side of the doorway. From the floor above her, she could hear voices and the banging of furniture. 

_How much time has passed, I wonder? How many survived?_

She stepped forward into the light and continued into the hall. She looked in every room she came to and eventually found herself in the room where Cicero had been placed several days earlier in order to recover. 

Obviously, not very much time at all had passed as the traitor’s body was still on the floor. The candles from the sacrament had since burned away to nothing but melted clumps of wax, smearing messily across the floor. 

She turned away instead of allowing any memories of the jester to cross her mind. _Betrayal for betrayal_ , she thought as she continued down the hall. The noise from the upper floor grew louder as she approached the stairs and pulled open the door. Slowly, step by step, she made her way up. 

The main hall was not in as bad of shape as she had first thought. The walls were mostly unscathed. It was the furniture that had suffered the most damage. Tables and chairs had been battered and broken into pieces. Bowls and food had been scattered across the room. 

The mess was currently being cleaned by the Companions and thieves. Even a few Whiterun guards were spread out amongst the help. Isith did a quick count of heads. No one was missing. The relief that she felt was enough to cause her to brace herself against the wall. 

At the far side of the room she spotted the one person that mattered most. Farkas was kneeling beside a bench that had been cleaved in two. He appeared completely unscathed with no sign of injury or death. She had to physically restrain herself from running to him, firmly gripping the rail across from her. She just wanted to watch him for a moment. Just to make sure he was really there. 

_As promised. He remembers nothing of the Void._

Isith froze. The voice in her head was not hers. _Sithis?_

_Indeed, child. We had a deal._

_Will you always be there?_

_Yes._

_Can you control me?_

_Only if you defy me. You will learn._

Stifling a cry, Isith retreated back down the way she came, stumbling back down the stairs and into the quiet hallway. 

_Fleeing already? I thought you would be happy, my child._

_Get out of my head._

_It is too late. I have something for you to do. Your first act as the new Night-_

_“_ Don’t call me that!” Isith spat the words aloud without meaning to. __

_Very well, acceptance will come in time. For now, you must travel to Cyrodiil. South of the Imperial city you will find an inn –_

_No! Not yet! I can’t leave Skyrim!_

Isith stumbled into a dresser nearby. She tried to think of anything, anything at all to force Sithis from her mind. Her hands flew to her temples, her fingers wrapping around her hair as she pressed against her skull. 

_Gods, what have I done. No!_

_Say your goodbyes, child. You’ll be gone for some time. I’m sure the boy will wait for you._

_Farkas? Oh, gods, Farkas! You can’t do this! How do I tell him? How can I tell any of them?_

To that, Sithis did not reply. Just as quickly as he had come, all traces of him were gone from her mind. 

Isith could do little to stop the tears that welled up in her eyes. Silently, she pushed herself away from the dresser that supported her and stumbled down the hallway to her quarters. 

…………………………………………………………….. 

By the time Vilkas went to check on the girl, she was gone. He lit the candle by her nightstand, expecting to see her sleeping soundly – alive and whole. However, the bed was empty and there was no trace of her to be found. Some of her clothes were gone, as well as her swords. There was hardly anything left of hers in the room at all. 

He emerged from her quarters yelling at the top of his lungs, shouting for anyone who could hear him. Companions and thieves alike answered him and he ordered that Jorrvaskr and the entire city be searched. He told them to check the Bannered Mare, the stables, Dragon’s Reach, anywhere that she might have wondered. They all set off as ordered, leaving Jorrvaskr empty save for his brother and Brynjolf. 

Farkas only stared at him, his face blank and unreadable, when Vilkas told him that the girl was gone. Brynjolf sent the nearest piece of furniture flying into a wall. Vilkas and the thief screamed at each other until one by one their friends returned, each baring the same news. 

Isith had vanished, gone without a trace. 

Sometime amidst the confusion someone actually suggested that she would return. No one paid the idea any mind. Halfway through a barrel of mead, Vilkas actually began to doubt that she had ever survived at all. Had he and Brynjolf really carried her charred body downstairs to lay it upon the bed, watching her heal before their very eyes as they did so? They must have. Farkas seemed alive and well. He wasn’t missing. 

No, only her. She had left them all. She must have slipped out somehow without them noticing her. She had been an assassin, after all. 

But why? No one could answer that question. Farkas would not say so much as a word. His face was a steady mask of stone as the days passed, revealing nothing. He had not so much as spoken her name. Brynjolf screamed for days, back and forth with Vilkas about who was to blame. 

At first they blamed themselves. And then they blamed Sithis. Finally, after a week, they just blamed her. 

The thieves eventually departed Jorrvaskr after all the repairs had been made. With the girl gone there had been no reason to remain any longer. Eight days passed since the night the Dark Brotherhood had attacked and Jorrvaskr appeared to return to normal for everyone except the twins. 

One night during dinner, Farkas spoke up, uttering some of the first words Vilkas had heard say all week. 

“Do you think she’ll come back?” 

Vilkas took a deep drink of his mead. “No, not this time, Farkas.” He sighed and peered into the flaming coals in front of him, watching as the flames danced about wildly. 

He never took his eyes of the flames as he whispered, “Not until she’s ready.” 


	35. Epilogue

Several months after Isith’s disappearance from Jorrvaskr, life had returned to normal. The Companions’ numbers were growing again, so much that Vilkas had to turn to Aela for help overseeing them all. Farkas kept up with all of it through the letters he exchanged with his brother every so often. Once every few weeks, the courier would stop by the newly built farmhouse, just outside of Riften on the shores of Lake Honrich, to knock at Farkas’ door and ask if he had anything to be delivered. Sometimes he would come baring a letter or two from the Companions. More often than not, the letter was from Vilkas and detailed everything from new recruits to the weather. However, the ending of each letter was always the same. Under his signature, Vilkas would always say: 

_There has been no news from anyone, brother. I am sorry._

After reading each letter, Farkas would crumple it and toss it into the fireplace that had not yet been broken in well. Most of his days were spent planting or hoeing the small plot of land, something at which he proved to be no good. To his luck, his Dunmer neighbors, Dravin and Synda Llanith, at Merryfair farm had quickly taken a liking to their hulking Nord neighbor who, conveniently, was always around to help with the heavy lifting. More than once, Farkas had chased off bandits that the Riften guards had been too busy to notice. As payment, they helped him tend his land, showing him the ins and outs of farming. 

On one occasion, while her husband was mending a fence post outside the new house, Synda Llanith had taken it upon herself to ask Farkas why he didn’t have a woman around the house. Farkas had simply shrugged and looked off into the distance, replying that he was still waiting on her. 

Synda never asked him anymore about a woman after that. 

As the months rolled by, even Brynjolf began to visit more frequently, each time giving the excuse that he was “just checking to make sure his boys hadn’t relieved Farkas of anything valuable.” They both knew that it wasn’t true, of course. Like Farkas, Brynjolf missed the little blonde Nord that had been ever-present in their lives until recently. 

Occasionally, the pair would go for drinks at the Bee and Barb. When they did, Brynjolf hardly left the younger man’s side, warily meeting the eyes of any female that passed within touching distance. More than once he’d had to fend off Haelga and Sapphire alike from pouncing on the grieving Nord. The only woman that Brynjolf had actually had to speak to Farkas about was Mjoll. The Companion had paid little attention to her until she began swapping stories with him about her various adventures. Farkas had seemed more intrigued than was good for him and eventually, after several nights of the same, too-friendly chit chat, Brynjolf had to swoop in and give the boy a stern talking to. 

“She reminds me of her.” He’d said as Brynjolf led him out of the tavern, a protective arm draped over his shoulder. 

Brynjolf had, of course, scolded him thoroughly, finishing off with something along the lines of, “They’re not the same woman, lad. Yours is still out there somewhere. She could tell you stories that would make Mjoll pale in comparison. And she will…when she gets back.” 

After that night, Farkas had never spoken another word to Mjoll the Lioness again. 

Five months after her disappearance, the first news of the Dragonborn’s exploits began to reach the ears of the common folk. Bards were writing new songs and singing them in praise of Skyrim’s lost-and-found heroine. Farkas listened to them all and each time his ability to understand her reluctance to return lessened. 

One night, he told Brynjolf over dinner, “She’s everywhere in Skyrim except for here.” The thief had shrugged and replied, “She’ll come around.” 

It was only later that Farkas found out that Brynjolf had people posted in every city for the sole purpose of finding out where Isith was hiding. Try as he might, nothing ever came of it. Eventually, he stopped responding to Farkas at all whenever he would remark on Isith’s reluctance to come home. 

Eight months after the last time any of them saw Isith, Farkas’ twin came for a visit. Vilkas had shown up at Farkas’ doorstep without a single piece of armor. 

He’d explained, “I’m going to stay for a while.” And he had. He had remained with Farkas for nearly five whole weeks. He was the one who answered the door the morning they received the first message from their Dragonborn. 

Farkas had still been in bed when he’d heard his brother quietly call his name. He’d sat up, rubbing his eyes groggily and looked to see Vilkas frozen in place with the door half open. His twin called to him once more and Farkas had forced himself sleepily from the bed. 

At first, when he had seen the bulky red-haired Nord at the door he had been weary. The one-eyed man had introduced himself as Argis and it was only when he failed to extend his hand that Farkas noticed what he was holding. In a large basket, swaddled in a mess of blankets, two newborns were curled around each other, sound asleep save for the soft cooing of their breaths. 

Farkas had been struck speechless, much like his brother who was still frozen by the door. Argis had been the first to speak and it seemed he had to make an effort to lower his perpetually gruff voice. 

“My thane ordered me to deliver them here safely. She said you were the father.” Glancing down at the babies, he added softly, “I believe she was correct.” 

He had carefully passed off the basket to Farkas who had accepted it with shaking hands. He’d retreated inside without another word, eyes locked on the precious contents of the basket. Vilkas had been the one to ask, “Isith? You have seen her recently? Where?” 

The one-eyed Nord had held up his hand to stop the questions. “My thane found me in Markarth not long after she realized she was with child and asked me to make sure she was safe. For the past few months she has kept her presence hidden from anyone who would look for her.” 

“And is she well?” 

Later, Vilkas would tell his brother of the look that had appeared in the man’s good eye when he had been asked that question. 

“No, I would not say that she is.” Argis had stepped closer to Vilkas and leaned in so that he could whisper, “She is not the woman I remember. From what I’ve seen, I believe she sent the children away for their safety. A new mother would not do such a thing if things were…right.” 

Vilkas had asked for clarification but had only received a cryptic reply before the man excused himself and headed back the way he came. The answer never sat right with Vilkas. Argis had simply said, “She believes herself a danger to them.” 

He never spoke to his brother of the last part of the conversation with Argis. Farkas had placed the basket on his bed and stood over his sleeping children, silent with his hands by his side. 

“Did you know she was –“ 

“No,” had been his twin’s sole reply. 

“What will you name them?” 

That time he had received no answer at all. He had joined his brother to look down at the twins. It was then that it first occurred to him that he actually had a niece and nephew. Like night and day, one of the twins was dark where the other was light. Curly hair adorned both heads, the boy’s as black as his father’s and the girl’s the same color as Isith’s had been. 

That day had been the first time in memory that Vilkas could recall seeing his brother cry. 

Two weeks later, Vilkas had left the little farm, reluctant to leave his brother on his own with two new children. Once again the elves down the road came to Farkas rescue. Synda had gone so far as to loan Farkas one of their cows so that he would have milk to feed the newborns and her husband had shown him how to milk the animal while the kind woman stayed inside to watch over the little ones. Over the next few months, hardly a day went by that one of the Llaniths didn’t show up to help Farkas in some way or another. 

Not long after the twins arrival, Brynjolf had burst into Farkas’ home unannounced and looking around frantically for the children. He had spotted the cradle, supplied courtesy of Synda, and had rushed over to it to peer over the edge. He had exited just as quickly as he’d come, muttering something about red-headed babies all the while, and with Farkas still sitting wordlessly at the dining table in shock. 

When the twins were three months old, Farkas received word that Alduin had been slain and Skyrim was on its way to recovery. He and the rest of Skyrim had celebrated the news and at the end of the night, he leaned over the edge of the cradle and whispered the story to his children. 

“You see, your mama did that,” he’d explained just before they had drifted off to sleep. 

With Alduin gone and more than a year since Isith’s vanishing, Farkas had known for certain that she would be on his doorstep in no time. However, weeks went by without word of anymore exploits and it seemed that the Dragonborn had once again left Skyrim. 

Between his time tending his newly flourishing land and that spent teaching the children to walk, Farkas rarely went into town; either Brynjolf or the Llaniths brought him what he needed. Still, he continued to wait. 

Four months after that, when the twins were going on seven months old, Vilkas had come by again. Farkas had received little word from his brother since the twins’ arrival and stranger yet, when he did come by, Farkas had asked him to hold the little girl and Vilkas had declined. He’d muttered some excuse that he might drop her but Farkas suspected there was a different reason. His brother could not seem to look at the cradle without his eyes glazing over and his words trailing off. 

On the third night of Vilkas’ stay, he had announced that he was leaving Skyrim for a while. Farkas had been shocked but had wished him the best and asked him to be careful. With the promise that he would send word when he could, Vilkas had slipped out late one evening after dinner without a final glance at his niece or nephew. 

After Vilkas’ departure from Skyrim, time seemed to speed past. With his children walking and talking and finding every kind of trouble imaginable, Farkas had eventually settled into somewhat of a routine. He would tend his own land and then move on to help Dravin while Synda watched the little ones, a task she was all too happy to aid in. By the time noon rolled around each day, Farkas and the elf would load up a cart with their produce and head into town, returning at dusk for dinner after which Farkas would return home, his little girl in his arms while his son toddled by his side. 

Life went on like that for some time, maybe even a year, Farkas couldn’t be sure. He had long since stopped counting the days. He awoke at dawn as usual and roused the sleepy children from their beds, hoisting them up, one in each arm, and placing them at the table. 

His son mumbled something unintelligible and Farkas guess it had something to do with the drafty air so he tossed another log into the fire place. His daughter remained silent, occasionally rubbing her tiny hands over her sleepy silver eyes. 

Farkas left them to eat before going over to the water basin to wash his face. Once clean, he dipped a rag into the cool water and then rang it out before passing it over to the fair-haired cherub sitting at the table. 

The little girl took one look at it, knowing what was coming, and shook her head. 

She stuck out her bottom lip and told him plainly, “No, papa.” 

Farkas cocked an eyebrow and offered the rag to her once more. 

“Nuh uh.” 

Her eyes flashed and she gave him her most charming smile. It wasn’t the first time Farkas had felt a lump catch in his throat while looking at her. She was so much like her mother. With a sigh, he dropped the rag back into the basin. It wouldn’t do them any harm to wash up later. 

The boy had just finished his breakfast as Farkas was stepping outside, ready to begin work for the day. 

“Wait, papa. More, please.” He held out the clean plate for his father to admire. Farkas sighed and turned away from the door. 

“Got my appetite, did you?” 

He ruffled the boys dark curls before scooping out another helping of the awful concoction they had grown accustomed to eating for breakfast. Synda had tried on more than one occasion to teach him how to cook but each time he had failed miserably. The stuff he usually made in the mornings was edible, however, and neither of the children seemed to mind it. 

Farkas looked at the girl and offered her another helping, to which she shook her head. She turned her bright-eyed gaze to the loaf of bread over Farkas’ shoulder and then pointed a chubby finger at the container that she knew held fresh honey. 

Farkas chuckled and bent to kiss her head. “Oh no, you don’t. Not this morning.” 

“Papa!” 

“For lunch maybe.” 

One more pleading, doe-eyed look from the little girl and sure enough, a few minutes later she and her brother both had a warm hunk of bed drizzled with honey sitting on their plates. 

Finally able to get on with his morning, Farkas made for the door once again. He paused just long enough to turn back to the children and say, “Shoes on before you go outside. It’s cold.” 

With that, he stepped out into the chilly spring morning. He had not been working long when he heard the sound of a horse approaching along the path to the farmhouse. He sighed and tossed the hoe he had been using to the side. Dusting his hands off on his pants, he turned and looked toward the rider. 

The horse itself was enormous, tall and lean, clearly not one of Skyrim’s native breeds that was meant for working and rough terrain. Atop the big grey mare sat a figure cloaked dark green. The hood had been pulled low over the rider’s face to obscure any features. Having encountered one too many enemies with their faces shrouded in shadow to suit him for a lifetime, Farkas paused and glanced toward the house to make sure the children were still safely inside. Just in case. 

Clearing his throat, he called out to the rider, “A little cold to be riding this early, isn’t it?” 

The figure on the horse slowed the mare to a stop several yards away and continued to stare intently at Farkas from under the hood. He was just about to call out again when the rider moved to dismount. With the rider on the ground, Farkas relaxed a bit as he observed that whoever it was happened to be relatively small. From what he could tell, the rider was also unarmed. 

Farkas watched as the rider raised one horribly scarred but feminine hand up to brush back the hood. Hair, long and pale, tumbled from the confines of the hood and fell over the rider’s shoulders. Farkas blinked several times, swearing that the early morning light must be playing tricks on his eyes. 

But sure enough, the woman in front of him neither changed nor disappeared with the blinking of his eyes. He took a timid step forward, his mind still reeling in disbelief. It had taken her two and a half years but there she was, not twenty feet from him. 

“Isith?” Her name felt stale on his lips. It had been a long time since he had last said it. 

The woman nodded once. “Hello, Farkas.” 

She cast her eyes away toward the house. “You’ve built a lovely home. When I’d heard that you had left Whiterun I could hardly believe it. I’ve seen the place from across the lake a few times, I just never -” 

“What are you doing here, Isith?” In his shocked state he couldn’t bring himself to curb the sharpness of his words. 

His lost lover noticed it as well and she looked away, suddenly nervous. “I, I just thought it was time. It’s been over two years, you know, and -” 

Farkas’ sudden movement caused her to cut her words short. She watched him, wide-eyed, as he strode over to her, covering the distance in only a few steps. He halted just in front of her, looking down at her, his face as unreadable as it ever was. Hers, on the other hand, revealed every thought that went through her mind as she stared up at him. She seemed to have forgotten how tall he really was and he watched her eyes travel slowly up his chest to his face. 

Suddenly, he was reminded of that first day in the Whiterun market when he’d seen her looking over Carlotta Valentia’s produce stall. She had turned to face him with almost the exact same wide-eyed look on her face. He had never told her how uncomfortable it made him that day. Now…he wasn’t sure if it made him uncomfortable or just angry. Could she really have forgotten something like that? 

Before either of them could speak again, the door to the house swung open and both the children came running out, laughing and giggling. Farkas noticed that for once they had both listened and put on their shoes like he’d asked. It was a small blessing. Observant as they were, neither child made it far before turning to look over at their father and the stranger standing beside him. 

The little boy was the first to take a step toward her while his sister remained near the house, her silver eyes studying the newcomer curiously. 

Farkas did not take his eyes off Isith as she watched her son approach. Her mouth hung open slightly as she studied the boy, her eyes flitting from him to the little girl and back again. Her lashes fluttered several times as if she didn’t quite believe what she was seeing. 

The boy came to a stop in front of her and grinned up at her in the happy-go-lucky way that only children can manage. With a shuddering breath, Isith knelt down slowly until she was nearly eye level with the child. For the first time, she was able to tear her eyes away from him to glance up at Farkas. 

Quietly, she asked, “What did you name them?” 

Farkas found that he was hardly able to speak at all. “That’s Bram and the girl is Sif,” he whispered. 

Bram piped up to announce in case it wasn’t clear, “Sif’s my sister! See ‘er?” He pointed to the little girl who was slowly closing the distance between them. 

Isith nodded slowly. “I do see her. She’s beautiful.” 

The boy laughed at that and shook his head as if she had just made the most outrageous of observations. 

When Sif finally approached, she paused so that her brother was still between her and the woman she did not know. She extended one chubby finger so that she was pointing over her brother’s shoulder. 

“What’s that?” she asked. 

Isith realized that the girl was pointing to the scarred side of her face and she blushed, looking away. 

Farkas, shaken from his stupor, cleared his throat and cut his eyes at the child. “Sif!” 

The little girl’s eyes went wide as she looked from him to Isith. Sharp as she was, she realized her mistake by the tone of her father’s voice. Almost apologetic, she said, “I like it. I can get one?” 

Isith cracked a smile and her eyes lit up, dancing happily as if she was in the company of good friends. She tilted her head to look up at Farkas, who’s brows had knitted together in a frown. Isith glanced back at the children uncertainly before standing again. 

Farkas nudged Bram’s shoulder and pointed to the door. “Get back inside, you two. I’ll be inside in a minute.” 

Sif shrugged and turned away but her brother remained rooted in front of Isith for a moment longer. Before Farkas could say anything else, the boy’s curiosity and gentle nature got the better of him and he leaned forward to wrap his arms around Isith’s leg in a special, childlike embrace. He turned her loose quickly and then hurried off to join his sister. 

When the children had gone, Isith turned back to Farkas. She ran a hand through her long hair nervously, raking the fair strands away from her face. It had gotten much longer in the time she had been gone and now hung fine and straight halfway to her elbows. As her hand moved, Farkas noticed then how badly scarred it really was and he had to stop himself from reaching out to take it in his own. 

“What happened?” 

Isith sucked in a deep breath before looking down at her left hand. She shrugged and replied, “A gift from Alduin.” 

“And this?” Softly, Farkas extended his hand up to her face and placed a single finger along her jaw where a jagged scar curled down under the bone there to the upper part of her neck. 

“Ah…I don’t remember.” 

Farkas did not remove his hand. Instead he continued to look down at her. Eventually, he let the rest of his fingers unclench and rest against soft skin of her cheek. It didn’t matter that there were a few more scars there since he’d last seen her. She was still beautiful. Before he could draw his hand away, too busy studying the myriad of new scars, she surprised him by turning her face in toward his palm and kissing it, her lips light and warm. 

For a brief moment it felt as if they had never been apart at all. His mind sent him back to the nights and mornings they had spent beneath Jorrvaskr inside her quarters. The memory shook him and he quickly snatched his hand away to place it back by his side. When her eyes widened in surprise he found he had to look away. However, he did not turn his gaze quick enough to miss the hurt that flashed within the dark green orbs. 

Isith recovered as smoothly as could be expected. Turning her head, she whispered, “Ah, I understand. I’m sorry.” 

“Are you?” 

Farkas snapped his head back to her once more, this time with eyes full of resentment. He could not help himself. For two and a half years he had waited without so much as a letter of well-being or apology from her. He had raised his… _their_ children alone while she went on with her adventuring. If she thought she could come back to him without penance, she was wrong. He was not without compassion, a flaw that was frequently exploited, but he would need some sort of reason…anything to explain why he’d been forced to live without her for two and a half years. 

She turned away from him, back toward her horse, and reached out to stroke the animal’s coarse mane. Her fingers worked through the horse’s grey hair slowly, gently wrapping and unwrapping strands as she went. It took her a long moment before she was able to find anything else to say. 

“You remember Shadowmere?” She glanced at Farkas, her eyes uncertain and nervous. “He tossed me from his back one night not far from the Imperial City. I broke three ribs in the fall. When I managed to get to my feet…he was gone. I never saw him again. Just faded away into the darkness leaving no trace that he’d ever been there.” 

When Farkas did not reply, she gave the mare one last pat on the neck before rounding on him again. She had steeled herself, the set of her lips and the look in her eyes reminded him of the few times he had seen her give orders to the Companions. 

“I made a deal, Farkas.” 

Silence met her, accompanied only by a silvery gaze that was unwavering in its intensity. 

Clearing her throat, she went on. “The night I left Whiterun…it wasn’t an easy choice for me, Farkas.” 

Farkas raised one eyebrow as he tilted his head down to stare at the ground. He had wanted an explanation. It was just two and a half years too late. He doubted she could tell him anything he hadn’t already thought of himself. But he would listen just the same. In honor of what they once had, he would hear her out. Crossing his arms over his chest, he waited for her to continue, never once looking back at her. 

“Something happened that night. I’m sure someone told you that it seemed as if we both had…died. At least for a little while. You don’t remember anything about it, I know. I struck a deal that night, too, and when morning came ‘round…I just couldn’t stay. I paid a terrible price that night, one that I don’t regret, not even if it cost me you.” She took a shallow breath to steady herself. 

“I-I wasn’t myself after that. I guess in some ways the Dark Brotherhood had won. I had to do things that I once swore I’d never do again. And when the twins came -” At the mention of the children, Farkas glanced up and found that Isith’s eyes had taken on a watery sheen as she fought to hold back tears. 

He wanted to comfort her then. He wanted to take her in his arms and ask her not to cry. It would be easier to be angry at her if she didn’t cry. 

“I was afraid I might hurt them. He – Sithis – told me just before their birth to offer them to him. I gave birth to them with his voice in my ear. I had to send them away, don’t you understand? I couldn’t risk hurting them. And, Farkas, I swear to you that I didn’t know I was with child when I ran. That would have changed things. But by then, it was just too late to do anything other than give them to you.” 

She took a desperate step forward and looked up at him, her eyes begging him to meet her half way. 

“I’m sorry I ran and I’m sorry that I left you to raise Bram and Sif on your own. But everything...it’s better now. That’s what I’ve been doing for the past year; it’s why I didn’t come back sooner. I’m me again, Farkas. I’m done with Sithis for good.” 

It was too much for Farkas to take in at once. So that was why she had disappeared? She had made a deal with Sithis? _After all we did? Icebrain._ He was beginning to doubt if someone like her would ever really be rid of that sort of stain. He briefly remembered begging her to rely on him, to come to him with anything that was too much for her to carry alone. He remembered her promising that she would. And he knew now that the promise had been a lie. 

He knew he wasn’t exactly the most scholarly of sorts but even he was well aware that you didn’t just strike a deal with a god like that and come out on top smelling like roses.He was half-tempted to ask her how she’d done it. 

Isith must have read the expression on his face for once because she quickly replied, “Like I said, I made a deal.” 

“Who was it this time?” Farkas asked. He wondered if he even really wanted to know. “What was the price?” 

“Well, according to the orphanage I am a Septim after all, you know. And it was Talos. Nice guy.” She smiled one of her old smiles, crooked and contagious. 

“I see” was all Farkas could think to say. 

He turned away from her and walked over to the fence that surrounded the yard. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that Isith was following. When he reached the rough cross-timbered railing, he heard the crunch of the ground as she stopped a few feet away. He leaned against the fence, bracing his hands on the rough wood. Less time with a battle ax and more time with farming equipment had made his hands less callused than they once were. They were still plenty rough, of course. He just had to look out for splinters these days. 

Behind him, he heard Isith change subjects, “I like the place. It’s a good farm. Close enough to the city to be fairly safe. Enough land to let the children have some freedom.” 

“I built it for you.” He told her quietly. His voice was so low he was surprised she heard him at all. 

He heard her breath catch in her throat and the audible way in which she expelled it from her lips. “I like it,” she answered after several moments. “The crops look nice. Small but any more and they’d be hard to manage.” 

“Yep.” 

The ground crunched again and soon she was at his side, leaning against the fence with her elbows propped on the highest rail. She locked her hands together and let them hang over the edge, fiddling nervously with a bejeweled ring that shimmered slightly with an enchantment. 

“Listen, Farkas…I, it’s not really my business anymore but, I mean with the children, is – is there someone else?” She stumbled through the question hurriedly, her fingers worrying at the ring with greater urgency. 

“Nope. I was waiting on you. Didn’t think it’d take this long, honestly.” Now, _that_ was honest answer. 

“I see,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, “I just thought…it’s been such a long time.” 

“Isith, no, there’s never been anyone else. Not for two and a half years.” He glanced at her, uncertainty of his own welling up inside his gut. He was almost afraid to ask. “You?” 

“No! No one seemed to matter after you. The scars seemed to keep most men away, thank Talos.” She cracked a small grin and added, “Well, I _was_ imprisoned for a month in Cyrodiil and one of the jailors tried but…he was my target so it didn’t end well at all.” She said it light-heartedly enough but her voice cracked slightly and Farkas knew at once that whatever the memory was it still pained her. 

“You killed him?” 

This time her voice was serious. “Yes. He was one of the last.” 

Clearing her throat, she paused long enough to think of her next words. Farkas could see it forming behind her lips before she spoke. When she did, he was not pleased. 

“You know, I had half-hoped you might marry. Those children need a mother and, well, I’m certainly not one. Maybe I could have been but…now, I don’t know anything now.” 

Farkas rounded on her suddenly, his brows shooting up into his hairline. “What?” 

Horror flashed over her features when she realized what she had implied. Frantically, she shook her head, sending her hair flying this way and that in a windswept mess. 

“I just meant that I didn’t come here to force you into… _that_! I can leave. I will leave if _you_ want me to. I hear the civil war is still going on. I thought I might help –“ 

“Then why’d you come back, Isith? You said a long time ago that there would be no more teasing. This, _this_ is _cruel_.” He jabbed a finger at her for emphasis. 

Isith balked and took a step back, bumping into the railing she’d just been leaning on. She took a single, soft breath before answering, “Because I had to know.” 

Without warning, one hand, the one that was badly scarred, flew out and struck the nearest fence post. “Damn it!” she growled as she shook out her fist. 

Sighing, Farkas looked away. He slowly shook his head, turning his eyes to the ground once more. At her words, his heart had begun pounding in his chest so fast that it almost hurt. To have her with him for the first time in so long, only to let her run off again, the idea hurt his heart in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time. He realized that he couldn’t let her go, not just yet. 

With another sigh, he turned back to her. “You want to come inside?” 

Her eyes lit up in much the same way Sif’s had earlier that same morning. She nodded her head vigorously and hurried over to tie off her mare by one of the posts. She looked up to find Farkas already waiting by the door and, snatching her pack from the saddle, hurried over to him. 

Farkas led her in, his eyes scanning the room to see what the children were up to as he closed the door behind her. Thankfully, the place was still in one piece as the twins sat cross legged on his bed playing a game that Synda had most likely taught them. 

As her eyes fell on her son and daughter, Isith wavered by the door, reluctant to move lest the cozy scene be shattered by her intrusion. Farkas cleared his throat gruffly and motioned to the table. 

“You hungry?” 

“Yes. It was a long ride.” 

“Well then, better sit down. Don’t let the little ones eat away from the table so you better not do it either.” 

Isith smiled warmly and moved to set down, leaning her pack against one of the table’s legs as she sat. With his back turned to prepare a plate for her, he did not see her as she bent down to rummage through her bag, drawing out to wrapped bundles. 

He heard her as she called out to the twins by name, her voice soft and somewhat timid. The twins scrambled noisily off the bed and crept closer to inspect whatever was in the packets she held in her hand. Farkas turned back around in time to see Bram curiously accept both and hand one to his sister when Isith gently instructed him to do so. Their little fingers worked to unwrap the bundles and soon enough both of them were holding messily iced sweet rolls in their palms. Sif in particular cried out with joy and rushed over to offer her father a small hunk. The rest she deemed to keep for herself, munching happily at it. 

Isith was so busy watching the squealing little girl devour the dessert that she did not notice at first when Bram, his sweet roll held tightly between his hands, hopped gracelessly up in her lap. Startled, she leaned away, only to find icing-covered fingers smearing their way over her blouse. Her eyebrows rose all the way into her hairline and her nose crinkled momentarily before she appeared to fall instantly and utterly in love with the little boy. Wrapping her arms around his middle to keep him balanced, she looked over to Sif again, the same sentimental glaze in her eyes. 

Several feet away, Farkas had stilled, the plate held slack between his fingers and his pale gaze locked on Isith as she cradled his son in her lap. The sight hit him square in the heart. It was both beautiful and painful to observe all at once. 

Isith chose that moment to turn to him, her eyes filled with mirth and a happy smile on her lips. The look fell as soon as she saw her former lover and was replaced by embarrassment as her cheeks went a terrible shade of pink. She glanced away. Wordlessly, Farkas placed her plate in front of her and retreated back to the counter. 

“Farkas,” she called his name, leaning around the boy’s head, “I’m sorry. I only wish that I could have held them like this when they were babies.” 

He released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Me, too.” 

Isith regretfully ushered Bram from her lap and tucked into her own meal. Several quiet minutes went by before anyone had anything at all to say. 

“How is your brother? And Bryn?” 

“Vilkas left Skyrim a while ago. Took off to Morrowind. I don’t think he realized I knew but he had a hard time dealing with the children.” At his words, Isith flushed and looked away, picking at an unidentified stewed vegetable on her plate. 

“Brynjolf comes by every week or so. He enjoys the little ones. Always has some new toy for them.” He took a sip of the drink he had fixed for himself as he tried to figure the best way to go on. 

“You know, they came to blows after you left. They blamed each other, then they blamed me. Even blamed that god, Sithis. I figured myself the slowest of ‘em all up to that point. That’s when I realized that out of everyone, I had the right of it - I was the only one who blamed you.” 

He glanced at his old lover to judge her reaction and found that her expression was stony. All she seemed to be able to say in response was, “And you had a right to.” 

He grunted a reply and looked away. With each minute that passed with her in the home that was once meant to be shared between them, it was becoming harder to carry on a simple conversation. As she rattled off about something, doing her best to change the subject, Farkas continued to watch her. All in all, if he was being honest, she was only half the woman he remembered. She still rambled on like she used to do, still had that same old endearing smile he always had such an awful time resisting. A time or two he nearly fell back into the old habit of reaching out to kiss her whenever her eyes would flash with humor. He restrained himself each time. The only thing different about her was the perpetual nervousness she seemed to have acquired. She would glance at him every few seconds, breaking eye contact to look away at some mundane object. He recalled the way she used to defiantly meet anyone’s eye, ready with a quick response. She still had the quick wit, he noticed, she just lacked her old spirit and the stomach for confrontation. 

It was just as well, he decided. It was better than seeing her hardened as he had often feared she would be. Knowing now that she had fallen back into the life of assassination and intrigue, he marveled that she was still so much like her old self at all. She was still rambling on when a strange ache began in his heart. He wished desperately for one sign, a wink or a good natured laugh, to let him know that the past two and a half years hadn’t broken her. If only she had remained with him, he knew in his heart that he could have prevented all of what was now before him. 

He asked himself silently if he still loved her. It was something he had refused to think about for nearly an entire year, ever since she had failed to show up after Alduin’s defeat. Her soft voice was still tinkling in his ears as he remembered their past. One good thing about being all brawn was that thoughts like that didn’t come up unless he wanted them. 

Today, however, sitting across from her, seemed as good a moment as any. Thinking back to the afternoon he’d watched her go sailing through the air as a result of being batted away by a giant’s club, he cracked a smile and was forced to hide it behind one of his large hands. ‘ _A damn milk drinker, that one. No bloody help at all._ ’ Those had been Aela’s exact words as they had all watched Isith sit up dizzily a few yards away. Farkas still wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had seconded the opinion. 

Then only a few weeks later, he’d watched her lay Aela out flat on her back in the Bannered Mare. She had moved with such speed and agility that he hadn’t been sure she was even the same woman. But the flash in her green eyes as she wittily excused herself from the tavern had been enough to hold his interest. 

Now, as she went on about the cold spring they were having, Farkas continued to think back to the first time he’d kissed her. She had been wounded, laid up in bed, and he had still been half cursing himself for letting her get away that night at Dustman’s Cairn. But the kiss had been all she had needed to possess him completely from there on out. 

He remembered the insecurity and jealousy he’d felt when he had first realized his brother had feelings for her. No man, not even his own flesh and blood was going to have her by anything short of her own decision. He’d never been so relieved of anything in his life to discover she had chosen him, not Vilkas, after all. 

The first time he’d had her in the Underforge came to mind as well and sent him blushing. It had been and still was the most precious of all his memories, when, in the throes of passion, he had thought for certain that they would never be parted again. Perhaps his proposal to her, strange as it had been, should have been his favorite but it had been tainted over the long period of her absence. He had, from that moment back in Jorrvaskr until this morning when she had come riding up, considered himself spoken for. Until today, he had convinced himself that she was still his wife-to-be. 

Looking at her now, he wasn’t so sure. She was the mother of his children, granted, and she had finally returned to him. But, in his heart, did he still want to call her his own, in name and in spirit? More importantly, did he still love her at all? The answer was and always would be yes to both questions. 

As the realization struck him, he noticed then that she had gone silent, her eyes locked on her plate and her cheeks flush with embarrassment. Quickly and with as much grace as a man like him could muster, with wasn’t much at all, he shook the revelation from his mind and announced instead that he should put the children away for a nap. 

Isith nodded her head in understanding and offered to clean off the table while he urged the little ones into bed for their afternoon nap. The girl especially would get particularly fussy if she didn’t get to rest and, as a result, would usually take it out on poor Bram. Farkas had learned months ago that it was the most efficient way of preventing squabbles between them. 

As he tucked them in, he was not oblivious to Isith’s presence at his side. She stood just behind him and observed the scene with thinly veiled interest. 

“It keeps them from killin’ each other. Vilkas and I were like that, too.” 

He glanced at her when he heard her stifle an amused snort. He went on, hiding a pleased smile as best he could, “Usually before bedtime in the evening I’ll tell them a story or two. Sif won’t sleep until she gets one.” 

“What kind of stories?” 

His answer came quickly. “Stories about their mother.” 

Before he even realized it, Isith bolted from the room, one hand thrown over her mouth to silence what was likely a heart-wrenching cry that threatened to tear from her without warning. By the time he realized that she was retreating outside, all he could see of her was the edge of her cloak flitting over the threshold as the door closed behind her. 

He called after her, cursing aloud despite the twins. He had waited too long to let her disappear again. He ran for the door, his heart pounding in his chest as he feared hearing the sound of the mare’s hooves pounding away from the house. He had lived without her for more than two years and, after seeing and talking to her again and enduring the sight of her interacting with the children, he didn’t think he could stand another day alone. 

He wrenched the door open and dashed from the house. He had barely taken two steps when he nearly tripped over her as she sat in the dirt with her knees drawn into her chest. She was crying. He could not only hear it but he saw the way in which her shoulders shook as she sobbed. 

Everything she had been holding in for the past two years seemed to come flooding out as he stood over her. Each sob was wracked with regret and remorse and dotted with sniffled apologies that somehow found their way through with each breath she took. 

Finally, Farkas could not stand anymore. Without a second thought, he reached down and pulled her up into his chest, wrapping his arms around her as she shuddered. He couldn’t resist the urge to bury his face in the softness of her hair and breathe her in; it was an involuntary reaction. She still smelled the same, like warm spices, and he couldn’t hold back the relieved sigh that ruffled the once short strands on her head. 

He did his best to hush her, murmuring relieved words of comfort in her ear, words that he had been desperate to say since the day she left. Nothing would quiet her, however, and for a long time he just held her, stroking her hair softly as she hid her face in the crook of his shoulder. 

Several minutes went by unnoticed until her sobs finally subsided enough for her to speak. She started to pull away, only to find herself unable to as Farkas held her flush to his body. Before she could move to wipe away her own tears, Farkas’ hand was there, his thumb ghosting over her cheeks like it had done in happier times. 

Sniffling, she whispered, “I’m so sorry for leaving, Farkas. I was a damned a coward in the end. I hurt you and for that I will be eternally sorry. All I ever wanted was to love you and to be loved by you. I’m a fool for ruining that.” 

She started to hide her face once again but he caught her chin between his fingers and turned it so that she was forced to look up at him. His silver eyes met hers and were warm and filled with the same adoration that had been there years before. 

“You’re forgiven, Isith. You always were.” 

“No, it’s not that easy –“ 

He hushed her by extending one finger over her lips. “It is. In the end, there are only two things that really matter.” 

She nodded and reached up to place her hands on either side of his face. Her touch was electric and welcomed, much like a warm glove on a chilly morning, and he found himself nuzzling into it as he asked, “Do you love the children?” 

Her eyes sparked and in their depths he saw the truthfulness of her answer. “Yes.” 

He brushed his lips against her palm with a smile. “And do you still love me?” 

She pressed her lips together as another sob threatened to slip from them. “I never stopped, Farkas,” she answered with certainty. “And I’ll love you on through the ages after we’re both long gone.” 

One more smile broke over his lips and he replied, “Then that’s good enough for me.” 

He kissed her then without hesitation. He kissed her with all the emotion and passion he had missed during her absence. Her mouth still fit his like a glove, soft where his was rough, giving when he took, and searching when he thought he had found all there was to find. 

When they broke the kiss, they both stood breathless, holding each other as tightly as they could and wordlessly refusing to the world and the gods alike to be separated ever again. 

Farkas stared down at her, nuzzling his nose against hers and reveling in the softness of her cheek as the stubble of his beard brushed over it. He pressed his lips to hers again before he asked, “Will you stay this time?” 

She grinned up at him, tilting her head so that her lashes brushed softly against his cheek. “Yes, I believe I will.” She looked away and then back at him cheekily, adding a shrug for effect. “It’s not like I have anywhere else in Riften to go since Brynjolf’s probably going to be unforgivably cross when he finds out I’m back.” 

Farkas chuckled and pulled her tighter against his chest. He pressed her head gently into his shoulder and bent his mouth low so that he could whisper in her ear. 

“Do you think this time you’ll be around long enough for me to marry you? Besides, someone’s got to teach the little ones to count. It’s not going to be me.” 

Isith pressed herself up onto her tiptoes and took his lips between hers again. Between kisses, she told him, “I’d be happy to teach them. And I’d be even happier to marry you, Farkas. It’s about time.” 

He tore his lips away from hers, suddenly serious. His silver eyes were alight as he said, “No more running off? I’m not sure I could stand it, Isith. I love you. Always have, always will.” 

She leaned her head against his chest, basking in his warmth and listening to the way his heart beat for her. 

She offered him the words he had waited two and a half years to hear. “I think that, for once, Skyrim’s problems can wait. I’m not going anywhere, big guy. I love you, too.” 

With that, Farkas hoisted her into the air to spin her around in celebration, reveling in the way his happy laughter mingled with hers, blissfully unaware as it carried over the pristine waters of Lake Honrich. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, glad that's uploaded. I'm super excited about posting the new revamped version. The story is quite - no, scratch that - almost entirely different. No war with the Dark Brotherhood different. 
> 
> Anyway, here are (some of) my faults with this story:
> 
> a: Isith, who I love dearly, became a big fat mary-sue. I simply got bored with the way the story was going so maybe that's why I stopped putting effort in to not making her an obnoxious Bella-esque "woe is me, save me, save me, sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice! then feel bad for me" sort of hoe.
> 
> b: I hate the last 30 - 45% of this story. See explanation above. (Psst...laziness)
> 
> c: Those gaping maw plot holes. Frickin' plot craters is what they are. Wonder how Isith got fixed up by Talos or whoever at the end? Yeah, me too. Cuz I sure didn't think that out. 
> 
> d: Somebody left me a review (possibly the most enlightening I've ever recieved) and pointed out not only the mary-sueness of Isith but also the way people fall at her feet. Yeah, that crap needs to be fixed. This is the point when I stand back and say to myself, "Gah, did I really do that?" Yes, Sara, you did. 
> 
> e: Jeez...I had this all thought out earlier. In short, I'm just not happy with it. I could have done so much better and I didn't. 
> 
> But, all is well, I feel revitalized with the new story arc and I'm doing my best to get up soon. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.  
> Very best,  
> Freshie


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